Читать книгу Alkibiades - Charles Hamilton Bromby - Страница 9

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‘And forth sche wente and made a vanysschynge,

* * * *

And hoom sche gooth anon the nexté weye.

This is theffect, ther nys namore to seye.’

Chaucer: Knight’s Tale.

It was towards the end of May, in the year 423, that Kleon gave his celebrated banquet to his friends. His house was large and sumptuous rather than beautiful. Βάναυσον is the word which best describes the feast, for which ‘vulgarly profuse’ is our nearest equivalent. Not that Kleon was altogether what we call a vulgar man. It may be doubted if there was anything known in Greece at that time which we can exactly qualify by the term ‘vulgarity.’ Yet his peculiarities had something akin to that growth of vulgar profusion in later times which came to its perfection in the rich outside society of later Rome, and has not yet entirely disappeared.

Kleon was a man of considerable power. He had shown sound judgment and natural military skill at Sphakteria, where, although unused to arms, he struck the first blow at the military supremacy of Sparta, while, as a politician, during the short time in which he took a leading part in the guidance of the state, he proved himself to be one of the most sagacious and far-sighted of Grecian statesmen.

True, he threw aside the old traditions of the Pnyx, the Athenian House of Commons, as he threw aside his cloak, or let it fall ungracefully from off his shoulders, as he tramped about the tribune. True, his harangues there were not the stately orations of academic Athens. True, he swelled his cheeks when he thundered out the living words which took such hold upon the people, chiefly because they were the expressed embodiment, the unconscious echo, of their own vague thoughts. Yet was there something in his voice—a ring in it—which spake of genius more than of vulgarity. And though his enemies could ridicule his speeches afterwards, and demonstrate the errors in his arguments to small batches of adherents in the Agora, few dare raise their voice to answer him in the Assembly of the people.

He loved the large and splendid in his house and at his entertainments, and there was plenty of the large and splendid at this feast. There was also serious conversation. The times were critical. The two great states of Greece felt a desire for peace. Athens had suffered terribly at Delion, and since then some other of the Thrakian cities dependent upon her had seized the opportunity to shake off her yoke.

But if Athens had suffered much, Sparta, on the whole, had suffered more, and with less power to recuperate, for this is the weakness of an exclusive people such as the Spartans were. Like the Patriciate of Rome, they would admit no strangers to share their privileges. So if a generation of her men were weakened, or, as happened sometimes, well-nigh destroyed by war, she had to wait for another generation to grow up to supply the loss. Not so at Athens. There the gaps made in her ranks were constantly repaired by new-made citizens, who soon caught the spirit of the old Athenian traditions.

Sparta no less than Athens wished for peace. But the treaty which had been made for one year, now just expired, had hardly been concluded before news came that Skione, a thriving town not far from Potidaia, had thrown off her allegiance to Athens, and had invited Brasidas, the Spartan commander in that part, who had taken Amphipolis, to come to help her, and that Brasidas was assisting her in her revolt.

Now, the treaty had provided that both sides and their dependencies should remain throughout the year as they were at the making of the treaty. Sparta declared the revolt of Skione had taken place before the treaty was concluded. Athens answered that to assist the Skionians was to infringe the terms of the treaty, as at the making of it Skione was a dependency of hers.

This questionable conduct of Sparta was the chief topic of conversation at Kleon’s banquet. Then there was the loss of Amphipolis, which the more warlike thought must be recovered at any cost. Some were for moderation, most of the guests for war. Kleon, having sounded the general feeling of his friends, was, on the whole, for war.

He spoke of the duty of all men, at any price, to save their country’s honour and preserve the state’s integrity. He denounced the perfidy of Sparta, and declared if Nikias, to whose negligence in confiding the Thrakian colonies to the government of the money-making Thoukydides the loss of Amphipolis was due—if Nikias feared to meet Brasidas in the field, why, he would go himself and bring the Spartans back prisoners to Athens, as he had done before, when Nikias shirked his duty at Sphakteria.

Most of his guests noisily applauded him. A few were doubtful. They had not much faith in the enterprise or ability of Nikias, who had already been sent to the north to recover the lost Chalkidian towns, and had returned with but little glory, yet they had still less confidence in the military knowledge of Kleon; while all recognised in Brasidas one of the greatest generals that Sparta had as yet produced. The poorer sort were all for war. War hit their rich and aristocratic opponents most, while the middle class often sucked no small advantage from a war.

Shining among them all was Alkibiades, gayest in wit, quickest in repartee. He was looked upon by both parties as the coming man amongst the younger men, and as one who must make his mark when, in a short time, he would be of age to take his part in the Athenian Parliament. But when the question of war was seriously discussed, he either affected carelessness or professed a desire to hear his elders speak.

From the traditions of the family, from his education, he was on the people’s side. Still, he was a knight, and very rich. His personal friends were chiefly of the knightly order, and on the other side in politics. They were nicer to associate with than democrats like Kleon and his friends. They had been, too, his comrades, and had fought beside him in the wars. Moreover, Sokrates, in whose wisdom he had great faith, was for the oligarchic party.

Both sides were anxious to get hold of him. He was too wise to compromise his future liberty. He had not yet determined on which side the better chances of distinction lay, or, indeed, which side was absolutely best for Athens. Kleon undoubtedly was the first man among the democrats—it would be difficult to oust him from his position. On the other hand, Nikias, though safe, was feeble and irresolute; there were already many secret murmurs against him, even from among his own party, both as a politician and a general.

When the feast and high debate were over, these were the thoughts which strove together in his mind, as, after bidding Kleon and his fellow guests good-night, he dismissed his slave and walked alone towards home.

Warm with wine, excited by the discussion he had heard, he wandered on, thinking of his future course in life. Who was there to guide him? There was Sokrates indeed, but Sokrates was all for Sparta and for peace.

Sokrates cared little for the oligarchic faction. Most of them, he said, knew not how to govern themselves, or persuade each other on the simplest questions; how could they govern others, or persuade the people as to what was best for their most vital interests? He had little regard for the oligarchs of Athens. But, anyhow, they were better than the mob. They had more to lose. And even they, foolish as they were, even they were more likely to go right in their opinions than the fickle populace, with their wavering, half-formed wishes. Alkibiades knew the advice he was sure to get from his old adviser. Then there was Hippareté, who, like the other women of her rank, had been brought up in respectable seclusion, knew scarcely anything beyond a few domestic duties, and cared only for her husband and her child.

Lost in his thoughts, his steps took him unconsciously from the homeward road, from the main streets, along a way they knew well, and which still seemed as natural to him as that which led to the house of his forefathers.

Descending the hill of the nymphs, where Kleon’s house stood, he made towards the Agora. The moon was nearly at its full, the streets were silent. It is difficult for us to realize a wide-spread city, gardens, temples, porches, statues, lit at night only by the moon. The absence of public lights at night, the scarceness of light in private houses after sunset, accustomed the citizens, especially the poor, to rise at earliest dawn, so as to make as much as possible of the daytime, and to go to rest at an earlier hour than the inhabitants of our gas-illuminated cities care to do.

He had met few people, when he found himself already beyond the Stoa Poikile, where Mikôn’s paintings of Ajax and Kassandra showed plainly in the moonlight, and the new statue of Hermes just finished by Nikeratos, for which, as all men knew, that incomparable sculptor had taken the son of Kleinias as his model. Then he passed through the Agora, the great market-place of Athens, and by the Stoa Eleutheros, and on and on he scarce knew where, he scarce cared to know for certain.

Skirting the Mouseion hill, the road led to the Ilissos. A young girl, starting suddenly from behind the temple of Aphrodite, startled him; he wondered at his weakness. She was soon out of sight. He turned the corner by the Amazonian monument, and then, there by the river, there in its pleasant garden, there it was before him, but long unvisited, the pretty villa he had himself planned for Timandra.

The akanthos plants had grown since he saw them last; the jasmine, just bursting into blossom, half hid the well-known door. These small things stamped themselves upon his memory as he paused a moment and looked round him, he knew not why; then he knocked nervously. The old slave he had given her opened to him, and laid her finger on her lips. He crossed the tiny atrium, entered the chamber painted in deep-red colours. The lamp of curious workmanship, which he had brought from Lesbos, shed a soft light upon the walls. A draped Hebe, cup in hand, was painted on one wall, an undraped Ganymede upon the other, and leaning against the pedestal of a statue of Eros stood Timandra.

She was gazing through the small portico out upon the orange-trees and myrtles; across them shone the moon. Her golden hair was bound up in a knot behind; the flowing robe hung down in graceful folds, and only half concealed her figure. On the tripod table near her—the well-known tripod table, with the three satyrs for its legs—lay rolls of writing: the fifth book of the ‘Odyssey,’ and her favourite Anakreon in its purple case. He walked up silently and placed his hand upon her. Without a sign of wonder, she turned and looked full into his eyes. There was no reproach, no astonishment, as she leant her head upon him.

‘I was expecting you,’ she said; ‘something told me you would come.’

They sat down on the couch, and then, all gaiety, she said how she had often heard from Aspasia how busy he had been with his affairs. She had but seldom been of late, however, to see Aspasia. She could not understand how one who had been the friend of Perikles could take up with a man like Lysicles, so burly and so common, whose talk was of his oxen, and his thoughts no better than his talk.

And then she told how Sokrates had been to see her. ‘Extraordinary man!’ At first, she said, she wondered what he came for, he asked so many curious questions—how she had gained the love of such a one as Alkibiades, and many other things. And then she mimicked Sokrates, and tried to imitate his eyes and mouth, till her fond lover stopped her.

‘And yet there was much wisdom in it all,’ she said; ‘and when he talked of you and told me how you saved his life at Delion, he grew quite eloquent. I thought I could have listened to him all day long.’

And so she prattled on, as though he had never left her, full of wit and life and loveliness. The night was fresh and bright, and, as he sat gazing at her once more, a feeling of contentment and delight stole over him.

Three days he stayed with her, bound by the old chain of love. On the fourth morning she told him he must go, and, after the slight morning meal, she bade him farewell—‘for a time,’ she said, as bright and cheerful as on the day when he came back to her; and he went somewhat reluctantly away.

His thoughts were not the bravest as he drew near home. He invented many poor excuses on the way—the busy times, the momentous questions, peace or war—and Kleon had kept him, requiring his counsel. He forgot them all when he knocked at his own door with a forced boldness. The porter opened; he entered with assumed carelessness.

All was silent. There was a scared look upon the faces of the slaves—not a sound except the splashing of the fountain as he crossed the courtyard. He passed on to the inner rooms. The ancestral sacred fire burnt upon the altar. No one appeared. He reached his wife’s room. No one was there.

He searched the women’s rooms, and at last found old Amykla, whose parents had been slaves of Deinomaché, who had nurtured him in childhood and watched over him through all his boyhood; who would gladly have died for him, and had received his wife with the same love and devotion because she was his wife; who had nursed her when his child was born, and tended both with a mother’s care while he was away at Delion. Amykla came with red eyes and unutterable sorrow in her face.

‘Where is Hippareté? Quick, tell me—where is Hippareté?’

‘Hippareté is gone, Alkibiades! She would stay no longer here.’

‘When did she go?’

‘But yesterday. The poor lady waited for two days and nights in tears. “Tell me, Amykla, has he come?” she said each minute. “No, Hippareté, not yet; he will come soon,” said I to cheer her. “Tell me, Amykla, is he hurt?” “Ah, no; we should soon hear if he was hurt. The great affairs of Athens keep him. He will soon be the greatest man in Athens. But yesterday he went to sup with Kleon. Kleon can do nothing without him. They say Kleon will have to go himself to conquer Brasidas, and he wishes Alkibiades to go with him. He dare not fight Brasidas without your Alkibiades. But Alkibiades will not go. He will stay here to lead the people, and protect his wife and child, whom he loves so much.” So I babbled to distract her thoughts, although I knew full well where you were gone. “Bring me,” she said, “the painting of him;” and I brought it, and then, poor lady, she fell a-kissing of it, till I got her to her bed and sat beside her as she sobbed and wept. A troubled sleep came over her at last, and in the morning a slave brought this from Kallias.’

He raised his head and read it.

‘“Hippareté,

‘“Alkibiades is with Timandra. I await you here. He is not worthy of you. Come to me and bring your child. I will protect you.

‘“Kallias.”

‘Ah, Alkibiades, could you have seen her then! She rose indignant from her bed, and taking the child, she bade me stay behind, nor dare to follow her. Then, turning to me, she gave me the child again. She seemed as in a daze, and went towards your rooms. When she came back she threw herself upon her knees beside her couch, and covering her head with both her hands, she laid it on the pillow, and there she wept until I thought her heart must break.

‘And then she rose, walked slowly to the door, and turning once more towards her couch, she raised both hands to heaven, and then I think she would have fallen had I not caught her in my arms. She let me hold her for a little while, but at the last she walked slowly away and through the courtyard, bidding her women to bring the child after her. So she left us, Alkibiades.’

Long time he stayed there in sadness; then he rose and told Amykla she might go. Then he gazed mournfully at all the small things that were hers. He opened the great carved chest. There lay her marriage robe, the long veil, the faded wreath she had worn the day he brought her to his home.

There was a strange swelling in his throat, such as he had not felt for many years.

He found a tablet with her writing on it about some small things that were wanted for Ephialtes, their child—about a gift for him, as a surprise. He remembered how happy she had been when she gave it to him.

He almost wept as he went to lie down upon the couch in his own room. He dare not lie on hers; it seemed a profanation.

In his own room everything had been put in order. He could see her care for him, for his things were just as he always liked them to be.

He found a scroll of writing on his table. He opened it and read:

‘I have gone back to my old home. Would to the gods that I had never left it!’

He lay down and slept. It was late before he woke. He remembered he had promised to sup that night at the house of Polytion. He called his slave and bade him prepare his bath, and then anoint him.

Dressed in his finest robes, he went to Polytion’s. The feast was nearly over, and the guests heated with wine. They rallied him as he came in. He heard Timandra’s name. He declined all food, but drank eagerly of Polytion’s generous wine unmixed with water. His wit that night was more poignant, more satirical, than it was wont to be. For all his efforts to conceal his thoughts, it was plain that something was amiss.

Days passed by in the great solitary house. His nights were spent in revelry. There was ever present all the time a feeling of imperfectness, a want. Sometimes he fought against it almost successfully, then it would come over him again when least expected. When he lay down alone at night, or in the early morning, he thought of all his wife’s great love and her devotion, and the kindlier portion of his nature took possession of him. This was the woman he was repaying for her love by making her spend days and nights in bitterest anguish. And all that time she was wandering like a spectre in her brother’s house—the brother she could never care much for, who was ever trying to persuade her to leave her husband altogether.

There had never been any love between her brother and her husband. She half suspected his design was to get back the dowry her father had given her, and the large patrimony he had left her in his last testament. By the law of Athens she knew if she left her husband she and all her fortune would be in her brother’s power.

She soon got tired of living in the brother’s house. Amykla sent her word each day how unhappy her dear husband was. She pictured him to herself alone in the big house, no one to take care of him except Amykla and the slaves. Poor old Amykla, she thought, could not do much for him, or make up for her. Perhaps he was wishing her to come back, too proud to ask her to return. And, after all, his great offence, bad as it was, was not a bit worse than many other men had been guilty of. He was so strong, so great, so noble. Perhaps she ought not to expect from him all that other wives might properly expect from their husbands, and he was pining for her, longing for her back again. Was it not her duty to go to him?

Then for Ephialtes’ sake ought she not to go—forget it all, try to know him better, please him more, make him love her more than he could ever really love that other woman? Ought she not to put up with almost anything, rather than the child should ever know his father had—had not been always constant?

Kallias was at her day by day about the question of a divorce. He told her her husband’s conduct had been such that she had only to go before the Archon Eponymos, tell him her wrongs, pray for justice, and, by the law of Athens, he could not refuse it to her. But she must go herself in person before the magistrate.

She began to think of this, though with a different design to that of poor, mean Kallias. Yet how terrible to go before so high a judge to accuse her husband, and lay bare the secrets of their married life.

At length she made a trembling resolution.

On the last day of June, as Alkibiades was sitting over his morning meal alone, full of many thoughts and plans, and for the moment had almost forgotten his domestic troubles, his friend Polytion, rushing in, told him the news, already known by half the town, that Hippareté was even now in court before the Archon Eponymos suing for——

That was enough. Through the portico and down the steps he went and swept along the streets of Athens. The people stood aside to let him pass, staring with wonder at his hurried appearance, for he never stopped nor noticed anyone till he had reached the Agora and the Archon’s court.

With a look of indignation on his face, he imperiously brushed aside the crowd of loiterers who thronged the building, and there before the Archon he saw Hippareté standing like a suppliant. Two women supported her on either side, while Kallias stood smiling near her.

At the last moment her courage had forsaken her; she could hardly speak a word. Had it been an ordinary case the judge would have grown impatient by this time. As it was the daughter of Hipponikos, the wife of Alkibiades, he listened patiently, and tried to help the faltering lady.

But before he could get her story from her there was a loud disturbance in the building as Alkibiades strode in, and, seizing his wife in both his arms, as she stood trembling before the Archon, bore her off in triumph.

And yet she triumphed too. With womanly insight, she had foreseen the probability of this; and thus she triumphed.

As we read the ancient story of this man’s life, with all his faults and all his greatness; as we assist, as it were, at the tournament perpetually going on between the nobler aims and the lower passions, between the loftier hopes and the desire for immediate enjoyments, we view, from this far distance, often with feelings of despair, the worse part of him constantly thwarting, sometimes spoiling, his highest efforts, his greatest victories. But in judging of his actions it is only fair to recollect the manners of the times in which he lived. We may condemn the morals of that age, and those who try to imitate them in our own; she could forgive him; let us not pass too harsh a judgment upon him.