Historical Miniatures. August Strindberg

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      “Really? Perhaps the plague.”

      “Perhaps.”

      This interjected remark of Anytos had crossed Cleon’s prolix discourse, and a new hope glimmered before him.

      “And after Pericles?” he said. “Cleon, of course.”

      “Why not? The man of the people for the people, but no philosophers nor actors. So, Pericles is sick, is he? Listen, Anytos? Who is Nicias?”

      “He is a grandee who believes in oracles.”

      “Don’t attack the oracles. I certainly do not believe in them, but a State requires for its stability a certain uniformity in everything—laws, customs, and religion. Therefore I support the gods of the State—and what belongs to them.”

      “I also support the gods of the State, so long as the people do.”

      The two orators began to be mutually weary, and Cleon wished for solitude in order to hatch the eggs which Anytos had laid for him. Therefore he remarked, “You say that Nicias....”

      “I am going to bathe,” broke in Anytos; “otherwise I will get no sleep to-night.”

      “But Alcibiades, who is he?”

      “He is the traitor Ephialtes, who will lead the Persian King to Thermopylae.”

      “The Persian King in the east, Sparta in the south.”

      “Macedonia in the north.”

      “And in the west, new Rome.”

      “Enemies in all four quarters! Woe to Athens!”

      “Woe to Hellas!”

      The guests had assembled at the house of Alcibiades, who on his arrival had immediately gone off, with the laudable object of procuring flute-players. Since the evening was warm, supper was served in the Aula, or inner court, which was surrounded by Corinthian colonnades, and lighted by many lamps which hung between the pillars.

      After they had taken a light meal, ivy wreaths were distributed and cups were set before the guests.

      Aspasia, the only woman present, had the place of honour next to Pericles. She had come at the beginning, accompanied by her slaves, and was waiting impatiently for the verbal contests to begin. But Pericles was depressed and tired. Socrates lay on his back, silent, and looked up at the stars, Euripides chewed a wood-splinter and was morose; Phidias kneaded balls of bread, which in his hand took the shapes of animals; Protagoras whispered to Plato, who, with becoming youthful modesty, kept in the background.

      Quite at the bottom of the table sat the skeleton, with a wreath of roses round its white forehead. In order to counteract the uncanny feeling likely to be aroused by this unbidden guest, Alcibiades had placed an onion between its front teeth, and in one of its hands an asphodel lily, which the skeleton appeared to smell at.

      When the silence at last became oppressive, Pericles roused himself from his lethargy, and opened the conversation.

      “I should like,” he said, “without raising any bitterness or strife, to suggest as a subject for discussion the often-raised question of Euripides’ supposed misogyny. What do you say, Protagoras?”

      “Our friend Euripides has been married three times, and each time has had children. He can therefore not be a woman-hater. Is it not so, Socrates?”

      “Euripides,” answered Socrates, “loves Aspasia, as we all do, and can therefore not be a woman-hater. He loves, with Pericles’ consent, the beauty of Aspasia’s mind, and is therefore no misogynist. Not much that is complimentary can be said about Aspasia’s person, and we have nothing to do with it. Is Aspasia beautiful, Phidias?”

      “Aspasia is not beautiful, but her soul is beautiful and good. Is it not, Pericles?”

      “Aspasia is my friend, and the mother of our child; Aspasia is a wise woman, for she possesses modesty and conscientiousness, self-knowledge and foresight; Aspasia is prudent, for she is silent when wise men speak. But Aspasia can also cause wise men to speak wisely by listening to them; for she helps them to produce thoughts, not like Socrates’ midwife, who only brings corporeal births to pass, but she incarnates their souls.”

      Protagoras continued: “Aspasia is like the Mother Cybele of us all; she bears us in her bosom.”

      “Aspasia is the scale of the zither, without whom our strings would not sound.”

      “Aspasia is the mother of us all,” recommenced Socrates, “but she is also the midwife who washes our new-born thoughts and wraps them in beautiful swaddling-clothes. Aspasia receives our children dirty, and gives them back to us purified. She gives nothing of herself, but by receiving gives the giver the opportunity to give.”

      Euripides resumed the topic which they had dropped: “I was accused, and am acquitted—am I not, Aspasia?”

      “If you can acquit yourself of the accusation, you are acquitted, Euripides.”

      “Accuse me, dear Accuser; I will answer.”

      “I will bring the accusation in your own words. Hippolytus says in one passage in your tragedy of that name: ‘O Zeus, why, in the name of heaven, didst thou place in the light of the sun that specious evil to men—women? For if thou didst will to propagate the race of mortals, there was no necessity for this to be done by women, but men might, having placed an equivalent in thy temples, either in brass or iron, or weighty gold, buy a race of children each according to the value paid, and thus might dwell in unmolested houses, without females.’”

      “But now first of all, when we prepare to bring this evil to our homes, we squander away the wealth of our houses.”

      “How evil woman is, is evident from this also, that the father who begat her and brought her up, having given her a dowry, sends her away in order to be rid of her.”

      “Now defend yourself, Euripides.”

      “If I were a Sophist like Protagoras, I should answer, ‘It was Hippolytus who said that; not I.’ But I am a poet, and speak through my characters. Very well; I said it, I meant it when I wrote it, and I mean it still. And yet I almost always love any given woman, though I hate her sex. I cannot explain it, for I was never perverse like Alcibiades. Can you explain it, Socrates?”

      “Yes, a man can hate and love a woman simultaneously. Everything is produced by its opposite—love by hate, and hate by love. In my wife I love the good motherly element, but I hate the original sin in her; therefore I can hate and love her at the same time. Is it not so, Protagoras?”

      “Now it is Socrates who is the Sophist. Black cannot be white.”

      “Now it is Protagoras who is simple. This salt in the salt-cellar is white, but put out the lamps, and it is black. The salt therefore is not absolutely white, but its whiteness depends on the light. I should be inclined rather to believe that salt is absolutely black, for darkness is merely the absence of light, and is nothing in itself, communicates no quality of its own to the salt, which in the darkness is something independent, consequently its real nature is black.

      “But in the light a thing can be both black and white. This sea-sole, for instance, is black above, but white below. In the same way something СКАЧАТЬ