Glory and the Lightning

by Taylor Caldwell

  When hearing of this the older Pericles remembered what Zeno had taught him—that men are born unequal by nature, though they should be equal before the government, so that no man is penalized for being poor and no man, however rich, can escape the punishment of law. Opportunity should not be forbidden the superior in soul and character, nor false opportunity given to the inferior who would prefer to be without the responsibility of it.

  Now the Spartans were directing all their determination against the older Pericles, who had far more power than when he had first come to the attention of Sparta, and had made Athens the supreme maritime queen of the seas. They jeered at his desire to make Athens also the empire of the mind through the help of his artists, his sculptors, his architects, his philosophers. “Has it not been said,” they asked, “that he whom the gods would destroy they first make mad? Pericles is a madman, an overweening dictator and tyrant.” So now they were fixed with the resolution of stubborn and narrow men that they must seize the maritime power of Athens. Labor, once held the province only of helots, became the duty of all men—except, of course, the oligarchy and the few aristocrats.

  This, then, was the present anxiety of Pericles, who was weary of the constant small but costly and enervating wars and distractions. He knew that among his own Athenians there were rich and potent men who were sending emissaries or spies to Sparta, out of hatred for him. He knew that they were also secretly inciting the rabble against him, so that through his destruction they could assume authority. The word “impeachment” was constantly on their lips in private. Only the accursed middle class of shopkeepers and little merchants and industrious men stood in their way, and these loved Pericles. Pericles called his foes traitors, openly, and they laughed at him.

  Aspasia said to him in concern, “Is there no way to reach an accord with Sparta and assure her that there is enough trade and commerce in the world for all cities?”

  “No. Sparta has never relinquished her ambition and purpose to be all-powerful in Hellas, as once she was through military might. Dreams take various shapes and war is but one of them. It is now trade—the rule of the world through commerce. It is the same goal: conquest.”

  On a few occasions he sent his own trusted emissaries to Sparta, to conciliate her and to assure her that Athens had no imperial designs upon her, and that surely reasonable men could reach an amicable understanding in the name of peace. Sparta received those emissaries with what they could only report as brutal courtesy and a lightly controlled rudeness. Her demands for an agreement were absurd, and so Pericles was forced to refuse. “These foolish little wars will continue,” he said, with mingled wrath and despair. “Sparta is determined to subjugate Athens as she has subjugated her allies. Our treasury is ominously depleted and we may soon have to debase our currency. The debasement of currency invariably means the decline of a nation, and so Sparta is compelling us to do that.”

  Aspasia said, “A final confrontation with Sparta, then, is inevitable?”

  “I fear so,” he replied. “In the meantime we will try to avoid that confrontation as long as possible. I only pray that it will not come in my lifetime.” But he suspected that it would and often he would pace his chamber at night futilely searching for a way either to conciliate the irreconcilable or to threaten Sparta in one open and exasperated challenge.

  His enemies were now accusing him of “goading” Sparta to attack, or of inciting her through unjust suspicions of her motives, motives which Sparta candidly and consistently proclaimed. “He is, first of all, a soldier,” his enemies told the rabble, “and soldiers are not famous for hating war; they love war even for its own sake. His imperial ambitions grow hourly and Sparta knows that and fears us. If we war strongly against her she will retaliate as strongly and peace in our world will be a lost vision.” They appealed to the pusillanimity of the market rabble, its fearful self-love. The rabble scribbled lies and threats and libels on the walls of Athens. When they saw Pericles in the Agora they either were sullenly silent or shouted at him before fleeing.

  Pericles’ enemies struck at him again and again through Aspasia. They said that she was the real power behind Pericles, that she was insisting that Sparta be attacked or made subservient, that her school was only a disguise for the procurement of free women for unspeakable purposes, that she induced young girls to engage in perversions with the ageing Pericles, and that, worst of all, she was impious. The comic poet, Hermippus, publicly accused her of these things. “If I were a tyrant, as my enemies and Sparta say I am,” Pericles told Aspasia, “I would have him quietly murdered or thrown into prison.”

  “I do not fear lies,” Aspasia answered him.

  He raised his eyebrows humorously at her. “Then, my sweet, you are still an innocent, and I am amazed. Lies are far more potent than the truth, and far more dangerous. They have caused the death of more good men than any deadly truth has done. For human nature is inherently evil and it prefers lies, and delights in the suffering of the just which it has inflicted.”

  “Then,” said Aspasia, “we must remain serene and indifferent to evil, as Anaxagoras does, in spite of the pain imposed on him by the mobs.” She added, disturbed by Pericles’ suddenly darkened face, “Future ages will give him honor, as they will give you honor, beloved.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Pericles, “neither Anaxagoras nor I will be aware of that.”

  Anaxagoras was growing old and tired. The repeated stoning of his little house and the disruptions of his academe and in the colonnades by the rabble were finally exhausting him. His voice no longer had the power to rise above derisive shouts and taunts, and the serenity and indifference which his friends so admired in him were giving place to deep inner sadness and a desire for even a precarious peace of mind and spirit.

  One day he went to see Pericles in the latter’s offices. The natural high dignity which had always distinguished him had not disappeared, nor his calm glance and composure. But his hair and his beard were white and his wonderful blue eyes had faded, and his fine hands were tremulous. Pericles had not seen him for three weeks, and Anaxagoras’ aspect today alarmed him, for it seemed to him that the philosopher-scientist had aged greatly even in that short time. But Anaxagoras smiled at him with his usual sweetness and embraced him. Yet Pericles, to his dread, saw that there were tears in his friend’s eyes.

  He poured wine for Anaxagoras, who gently refused other refreshments. He was long in speaking; he swirled the wine about in his goblet and absently studied it. Pericles was more alarmed.

  “Do you bring me bad news, my friend?”

  Anaxagoras hesitated, and seeing this Pericles said, “Do not refrain from telling me. There is not a morning that comes to me with hope, but only with aversion, these days. I must armor myself afresh each day by deliberate will.”

  “But you are much younger than I, Pericles.”

  “You must remember I am a politician.” Pericles tried to laugh. “Well, you must tell me. I assure you that my enemies have not as yet castrated me, try though they do.”

  Anaxagoras still hesitated. Then he sighed. “I must leave Athens.”

  Pericles looked at him with astonishment. “You would flee from your own enemies?”

  Again Anaxagoras sighed. “There comes a time in a man’s life when he is weary of fighting, of struggle—when, in truth, he finds it too hard to endure and becomes tired of living. That time has come to me.”

  “You are tired of living?”

  Anaxagoras raised his eyes and looked at Pericles fully. “Yes. If I am not to come to the desperate conclusion that no life is worth living then I must leave Athens, however dearly I love her.” Seeing Pericles’ misery he added, “It is my age, dear friend. I would have a little peace in my last years.”

  “You were never a coward,” said Pericles, hoping to perturb that calmness and restore spirit to Anaxagoras. But Anaxagoras merely smiled.

  “Is a longing for tranquility in an old man cowardice? Even an old soldier eventually r
etires from the battlefield and the sound of drums does not quicken his blood.”

  When Pericles did not speak, Anaxagoras reached out and placed his hand on the back of the other’s hand. “Do not sorrow for me,” he said. “The gods have not endowed us with perpetual youth, and the high heart of young men must become subdued in late years. Would you have me a cynic, and speak with acid in my mouth? Would that not be worse than—flight? When I am no longer in Athens I may start to believe, again, that I am with God and that His peace is with me, and that in time men will become truly human.”

  “I cannot endure that I will never see you again,” said Pericles. “Now will all your friends be devastated.”

  “You must explain to them,” said Anaxagoras. “I have my limits of endurance, too. I have spoken of this only to you, for if I see the others and listen to their pleas I may weaken in my resolve and remain. At the end that would be a little death for me. It would be the end of all my hope.”

  “Where will you go?” asked Pericles, and now he was most anxious.

  Anaxagoras shook his head slightly. “That I will not tell you for you may seek me out, and seeing you will cause me suffering and a longing to return.”

  Pericles rubbed his suddenly tired eyes and his mouth and chin. “You have little money, that I know. Will you at least permit me to give you a purse of talents as a gift? I should like to have that small pleasure.”

  “I need very little,” said Anaxagoras, looking at him with compassion. “But, yes, if it will truly please you.”

  Pericles went to an iron locked chest in his cabinet and took out a heavy purse. He laid it before his friend. They both stared at it. A deep silence fell between them. It had been many years, too long to count, since Pericles had felt a desire to weep, but he felt it now, and with that impulse his growing bitterness was increased and his growing despair. He was always striving against hatred in himself even for his enemies. Now it was rising beyond his control.

  Anaxagoras was pushing himself heavily to his feet and Pericles stood up also. Anaxagoras put his hands on Pericles’ shoulders. “Give me peace,” he pleaded. “For I say to you, may the peace of God be with you, dear friend.”

  “Go in peace, then,” said Pericles, but his expression was harsh.

  “Do not grieve for me, Pericles. My hour for silence has arrived, as it will, unfortunately, arrive for you. We cannot escape our mortality.”

  When Anaxagoras had departed Pericles felt a great wound in his soul, a tremendous emptiness and loss. His reason told him that the loss of beloved friends, and the emptiness which follows, cannot be avoided, but his heart rebelled. Why could not Anaxagoras have lived out his few remaining years in tranquility among his pupils and those who loved him? He had been driven away by evil, for all his explanation that he was only weary and old.

  Aspasia wept when Pericles told her of Anaxagoras’ departure.

  “Who will replace him?” she asked.

  “No one. A good man can never be replaced.”

  “We have that to console us, Pericles. Bad men die and no one sorrows for them.”

  Now Pericles spoke to her impatiently, he who was rarely impatient with her. “But their evil endures after them. Have you forgotten history? The good descend into their graves, lamented only by their friends, or, if history does record them, it is only briefly. But the memory of evil men is too often glorified. How many statues are erected to good men? But forests of statues are erected to ruthless conquerors.”

  “That is a sad commentary on human nature.”

  Pericles shrugged. “But a true one.” He paused. “That one such as Anaxagoras was finally forced to flee is enough of a commentary.”

  The friends of Anaxagoras were broken-hearted. Only Socrates kept his composure. “At least they did not murder him,” he said. He smiled. “He has escaped that honor.” He laughed, his high whinnying laughter. “But I feel that I shall receive that honor one day, for which I am already grateful.”

  They all tried to console themselves that Anaxagoras had probably found the peace he so deeply desired. But his absence tortured them. A vital element had departed from their lives, and it would never return. They were poorer. A golden coin had been forever lost from their purses; the light of their existence had darkened in a profound measure. The sun would never shine for them as once it had shined, and their hope had lessened.

  They never saw Anaxagoras again nor did they receive any message which might have consoled them, nor did they know where he was nor when he died. But one day Socrates said to Pericles, “Our dearest old friend, Anaxagoras, left this world yesterday or the day before.”

  “How do you know?”

  Socrates’ satyr eyes were sorrowful. “How do I know? I do not know. Did I dream it and have I forgotten the dream? Or did his spirit pause beside me one night to bid me farewell? I do not know. I only know that I know.”

  Pericles did not doubt him. Acrid tears came to his eyes and Socrates looked at him in commiseration. “But does not death come to all of us? I say to you now, as I have said it before, a good man needs not fear death, for if it be eternal sleep is not sleep pleasant? If he lives beyond his grave, then God will surely receive him with love, and embrace him.”

  When Pericles’ despairing face did not lighten, Socrates said, “Let us compare death with a ship full of passengers. The ship leaves its harbor and we weep and say, ‘She departs, and never shall we see our friends again.’ But perhaps in another harbor a glad shout is raised, and the waiting ones say, ‘Here she arrives, and our friends with her!’”

  It was then that Pericles could not restrain himself and he broke down and wept, weeping as he had not wept since his father had died.

  Socrates thought, When a great man is moved to tears the world should so be moved also. Alas, it never is. We save our tears for mountebanks and liars and oppressors, when they die, and we hail them as saviors and heroes.

  CHAPTER 13

  Thucydides, son of Melesias, was called the Old Oligarch because of his insistent and querulous dogmatism and pursuit of those he hated. Had not Pericles had him once or twice prosecuted for usurious practices he still would have hated the Head of State. Pericles was all he despised. The character of Pericles infuriated him. Among his friends he mocked Pericles’ stateliness, his composure, his aversion for the mean and petty, his intense patriotism, his patronage of artists and philosophers, his Aspasia, and the illegitimacy of his son. Avaricious though Thucydides was, he spent his money almost lavishly to inspire outbreaks among the rabble against Pericles, cunningly aware that there was almost nothing the populace loved more than the ridicule of the prominent and the powerful, and especially the noble. Well-knowing that mobs were naturally hysterical and believed any vicious rumors, he accused Pericles of not only prolonging the hostility between Sparta and Athens but of using that hostility to “hide his derelictions and the depletion of our treasury.” The ignorant masses, Thucydides knew, were womanishly excitable and always solicitous for themselves, and that no matter what ill came to Athens they were eager to believe the fault was in their leader. Thucydides bribed comic poets and orators to blame Athenian troubles on Pericles’ alleged indifference to the gods, “which remains unpunished.” Was he not known to neglect them? Had he not been heard to say that “there is only God,” when it was obvious there were many gods and goddesses? His patronage of Pheidias and his approval of the enormous gold and ivory statue of Athene Parthenos on the acropolis was not the result of piety, for though it was complete it had not yet been dedicated. Moreover, it was shamefully expensive.

  “Look at all those other statues and extravagant temples and gardens and terraces on the acropolis!” Thucydides would complain. “No, it is not piety. It is self-aggrandisement on the part of Pericles. He also wished to enrich his sculptor friends, particularly Pheidias. Pericles’ association with such pestilential ragamuffins like Socrates is a disgrace to Athens. Where is our former sobriety in financial matters, and our prudenc
e and responsibility? Pericles has corrupted them all with his vanity and his desire to be known as the leader of culture and philosophy in Athens. Let us return to his sacrilege: He permitted Pheidias to represent him, and Pheidias, on the shield of Athene Parthenos, bold enough for any eye to discern! If Athene does not destroy Athens with an earthquake such as afflicted Sparta years ago it is only because she is merciful, or she is waiting for Athenians to avenge the insult to her.”

  The envious rabble, who were already persuaded that Pericles should have spent the gold in the treasury “on your abject needs and laudable aspirations for a better life,” were daily becoming more mutinous. Pericles lived in luxury. Why should they not, too, be more adequately sheltered and given other sustenance? To them Pericles embodied all the wealthy and the aristocratic. He, and he alone, was accused of delighting in “the suffering of the poor,” and in instigating it. He was selfish; he was too ambitious; he detested the lowly; he was a dictator; he was endlessly greedy; doubtless he had misappropriated funds from the treasury—to which they had never contributed through taxes—for his own enrichment. The jewels of Aspasia were famous. From what lowly pockets had the money come for these? He had plundered Athens for the adornment of a harlot, whose habits were shameful, and who was known for her own impiety. He was attempting to divert the attention of the outraged citizenry from his crimes against it by goading Sparta to outright war. “It is well known,” said Thucydides, “that this has often been, in the history of nations, a tactic used by tyrants.” As an investor in various enterprises engaged in the manufacture of war material, and from which he, Thucydides, had enriched himself, Thucydides was careful never to attack those enterprises or his wealthy friends who were also invested in them.