by Karen Essex
I laughed loudly. I did not know whether this Sokrates was trying to amuse me or amuse himself.
“Here he is again, talking nonsense when he should be working his magic upon the marble,” Pheidias said in mock frustration. I could not tell whether or not Pheidias was flirting. Perhaps he found Sokrates attractive in some bestial way and was trying to groom him for a lover. It would not be the first time he had given one of his workers additional duties.
“What is the story told in the relief?” I asked, pointing to the long sculptural scene that Sokrates had been polishing when we interrupted him.
Pheidias opened his mouth to speak, but Sokrates began talking as if I had addressed the question to him. “It’s the story of the creation of Pandora, the first woman, who released mischief into the world. The story is widely known. The Olympian gods were annoyed with Prometheus for stealing their precious fire and delivering it to the common man, so they decided to punish the human male by creating an irksome creature who would both enchant men and cause them great aggravation.”
“A woman, naturally,” I said.
“This creature was Pandora, to whom the gods gave many gifts, along with a precious box.” He pointed to the figures on the pedestal that he had been polishing. “See here how each of the gods is giving her the same gifts that Athena gave to the citizens of her city? Here she is given knowledge of weaving, of learning and wisdom, of how to grow crops and forge weapons. The only caution that Athena issued was that Pandora was not, under any circumstances, to open this mysterious box. But the box was so lovely!”
“And I am sure that Athena had also given Pandora a love of beautiful things,” I said.
Sokrates raised his finger straight in the air like a teacher about to make a point. “Being of a curious and disobedient nature, Pandora flung aside these gifts. She could not resist an investigation into the unknown. She opened the box, releasing all evil into the world.”
“You are positing that women were irksome from the start? That women are responsible for the world’s ills?”
“I merely relate the events,” he said. “I did not invent them.”
“I have a different proposition. Is it possible that everything that Pandora released has made the world a more interesting place? After all, how would we know what is right and good and virtuous if we did not have contrasting qualities to compare?”
“I do like the way that you have turned the question on its head,” Sokrates replied.
“Pandora was perhaps the Greek world’s first philosopher. For like myself, she was not content merely to accept the given, but was compelled to launch her own investigation into the order of things.”
“That is certainly an interesting observation, and one that I would like to pursue with you,” he said.
“For the gods’ sake, please do it later and not when I am dependent upon your labors, Sokrates,” Pheidias said.
“I have long wanted to make your acquaintance, madam, to witness for myself if your wisdom is fact or rumor.”
“But we have yet to be introduced. How would you know me?”
He laughed. “All Athens and much of the rest of Greece knows of Aspasia—even before last night. From the moment I saw you, I knew that you could be no other.”
I felt the blood rising to my face, but Sokrates was smiling, and not maliciously. Perhaps everyone was taking the comments in the play as a joke. “So there are some things of which you are sure, despite your earlier claim to the contrary?”
“Apparently, yes. I am sure that the gentlemen of Athens find you so wise that they ask you for advice in matters of love.”
“That is true enough,” I said. “It is difficult for men to apply their natural powers of reason in these matters. Intervention from an observer, one versed in the philosophy of love, is valuable, I am told.”
“Madam, I am a student of the greatest teacher of the philosophy of love.”
“Are you? And who is this wise man?” I asked. I had heard of no philosopher, sophist or no, who had declared himself thus.
“It is no man but a woman like yourself, though much older and, of course, not nearly so lovely, though she declares that loveliness is in the eye of the one who looks upon it.”
“Enough!” Pheidias interrupted. “Lovers of words have no place where honest work must be done. Make a time for chatter when I do not have to listen or after I have had enough wine to be amused by you. Come with me, Aspasia. If we do not leave, he’ll never get to his tasks.”
I left Sokrates with an invitation to my home, having expressed my desire to meet his female instructor. I thought that if he did not irk Perikles, he might amuse him. And I could not wait to meet my older and less beautiful competitor who was also spouting wisdom in matters of love.
“I must take my leave,” I said to Pheidias, who, once outside, was sneezing dust out of his nose. He looked fatigued and in need of an afternoon nap. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, which was growing higher with his ever-receding hairline. He was not old, but it did occur to me that he was no longer young. I hoped that his massive efforts would bring him the acclaim he both desired and deserved while he was still lucid and living and able to enjoy the accolades.
“As you leave the Akropolis, take a moment to notice a new sculpture of the figures of the Graces. That odd fellow Sokrates is the artist. The figures are quite nice. There is true motion in them. He could be something of an artist if he had half a mind to try.”
The Graces are called thus because of the qualities they represent—beauty, joy, health. Part of the retinue of women who served the great love goddess, they were supposed to enhance Aphrodite’s already irresistible feminine allure. Some say they were her daughters by Dionysus, and looking at the figures that had sprung from Sokrates’ imagination or inspiration, it was easy to believe that the two great deities of sensuality had indeed mated and formed these three beings. Pheidias was correct; the sculptural grouping by Sokrates showed demonstrable talent. The magical creatures were skillfully painted, decorated with glimmer that made their hair catch the late-afternoon sunshine. I wondered if Sokrates had applied the paint that gave flush and definition to their faces and forms, or the jewels that had been fastened into their necks and ears, or if another artist had come behind him and decorated the figures.
In any case, the figures were well carved. The sculptor had presented them as naked but wrapped their forms in a single length of fabric that intertwined their arms and legs, connecting the Graces in an unending nimble dance. Their arms were wrapped around one another, and their elegant figures seemed to flow together. I could almost imagine the music that moved them to sway together in their seductive dance. But even as their bodies were entangled, their faces remained disturbingly separate and disconnected. The striking face of Aglaea, goddess of beauty and charm, peeked out from the wrap of fabric, beckoning and teasing. Thalia, mistress of health and radiance, threw her head back in ecstasy and abandon. But Euphrosyne, who presided over mirth, and some said joy, stared at me as if down her nose.
I did not like the way the figure seemed to look at me, as if she had something in mind for me that she would not share. Beauty and Health appeared benevolent though remote. But Mirth appeared to have a specific message for me. Could it be that the same sneering I had endured from the comic playwright was also coming at me from this block of stone? I turned away from the creation of Sokrates, admiring his talents, though he had been quick to discount himself as an artist of any consequence. I told myself that when I again saw him, I would remember to tell him what I had imagined about his creation. Then I left behind the disquiet aroused by the mistress of mirth and I began the long walk home.
In the city of Constantinople July 9, 1801
My dearest Father,
I am delighted to report that we have succeeded marvelously in procuring the proper FIRMAN from the Porte! It allows all our artists to go into the citadel at Athens, to copy and model everything in it, to erect scaffolds all round
the Temple of Athena, to dig and discover all the ancient foundations, and to bring away any marbles that may be deemed curious by their having inscriptions on them. Our artists and craftsmen are not to be disturbed by the soldiers or any officials who are on the Acropolis under any pretense whatever. Don’t you think this will do? I am in the greatest glee, for it would have been a great pity to fail in the principal part of our mission, after having been at such an expense.
Father, you can have no idea of the pleasure your and my mother’s letters from Athens gave us. I know that you did not admire Elgin’s pursuits on the Acropolis, and I, too, was against them for a time. But I feel the greatest comfort at your approval of the work. It is certainly very pleasing to hear that things are done in so superior and masterly a style. With your support, I no longer have cause to grudge them. Elgin is delighted that you have entered so heartily into his cause. Your visit will undoubtedly restore the spirits of the artists and set them to work with renewed vigor.
We have been at lovely Belgrade these few weeks escaping the heat and the plagues. Nothing can be lovelier than this city with its springs that give poor Elgin relief from his chronic rheumatism. The city has many shaded walks and endless gardens of flowers, all within view of the Black Sea. But I fear that we have run into a fever epidemic here and must refrain from drinking the water as Dr. Scott tells us that the water itself is quite feverish. Little Bab has been sick, and there is nothing more horrible than seeing one’s Bab ill. I hear that you will soon be quarantined at Malta, and then to London and on to home. How I envy you and miss the faces of my dear own Mother and Dad.
Your dutiful and very affectionate daughter,
M. Elgin
August 1, 1801
Dear Lord Elgin,
The citadel is now as open and free to us as the streets of Athens. The artists are to consider themselves at full liberty to model, dig, or carry away whatever does not interfere with the works. The last few days have been particularly exciting. The ship-carpenter and five of the crew mounted the walls of the Temple of Athena, and with the aid of complex cordage and about twenty Greeks, they succeeded in detaching and lowering down, without the slightest accident, one of the statues in the metopes representing a combat between Theseus and a centaur. It has long been the admiration of the world; indeed, nothing can equal it for beauty and grace. A second, which adjoins it, on the same subject, was lowered without incident. Lusieri allows that there is nothing more perfect than these works in all the Universe.
On the western front of the Parthenon was the celebrated group of Zeus presenting Athena as his daughter to the council of the gods. Much of it has disappeared, but being convinced that these enormous works could not have been carried off, we pulled down an old house and excavated beneath it. On digging to a considerable depth, we found the naked torso of Zeus and the greatest part of the statue of Victory. The drapery of this winged creature, which Lusieri posits might be the messenger goddess, Iris, is so light and elegant as to resemble the finest muslin and miraculously shows all the contours of the form beneath. The realism of the clinging drapery is so strong as to defy the imagination. One can hardly believe that it is made of stone! We also found there in the ground part of the body of Hermes, son of Zeus, and herald of the gods. No doubt he was on hand to announce this earth-shattering birth of Athena.
Still, my lord, there is nothing that we can do to stop the garrison from destroying what is left of the Parthenon. They are continually pummeling its parts to extract the lead that was used to fasten its clamps. I am sure that in a half century there will not remain one stone. It would be well, my lord, to ask for all that is left, or else to do all that is possible to prevent their going on in this fashion.
I do hope to see Your Lordship in Athens before too long. Until that time, I remain—
Reverend Philip Hunt
In the city of Constantinople, Autumn 1801
LADY MARY CHRISTOPHER BRUCE— called Little Mary—was born on the last day of August. She came into the world in a much easier fashion than her brother. Still, Mary had once again found that the word “labor” had earned its literal meaning, and she had not had nearly enough rest since that long and—as she often laughed to herself—laborious event. Just two days after the birth, the French surrendered to the English and Turkish armies in Alexandria. Elgin came flying into the house with the letter of announcement in his hand, and life for the Elgins in Constantinople accelerated at once. They were expected to attend all the celebrations hosted by the Sultan—and there were many—as well as to give a series of suppers and balls in honor of the victory.
Just three weeks after the birth of Little Mary, Mary was out on a boat every night watching the Sultan’s weeklong display of fireworks. She was required to attend; Elgin was singled out in each celebration for a special honor. On one of these nights on the water, they passed the Sultan’s barge. Selim acknowledged the Elgins as he drifted past them, but shortly afterward Mary turned around in time to see the Sultan staring at her through his telescope. She also saw, at that moment, the women of the harem waving to her from within their snug little prisons.
Why could they not be out on the river enjoying the spectacle with everyone else? These were the most prominent women in the empire; didn’t their men want their company on such a monumental occasion? Mary could not imagine watching Elgin from a distance. No, he wanted her at his side, and she wanted to be there.
In any case, the Sultana Valida must have seen from her perch in the seraglio that the Sultan was staring at Mary, because the long-planned meeting was set for the very next day.
“The Valida is a formidable woman,” Madame Pisani had told Mary while preparing her for the protocol of the harem. “Her name—though please do not utter it—is Mihrisah, which means ‘Ruler of the Sun.’ She is from the country of Georgia in the Caucasus, and she has been through much hardship on behalf of her son. You know it is the custom of the Turks to imprison the heirs to the throne. It is the only way that the reigning sultan might stay alive. Selim was imprisoned for fifteen years, waiting for his uncle Abdulhamid to die. For all that time, Mihrisah had been living in the Palace of Tears for widowed sultanas. Finally, twelve years ago, Abdulhamid died, Selim became sultan, and they were both freed.”
“Is she the power behind the throne?” Mary had asked.
“She is probably the single greatest influence on the Sultan, more so than any one of his advisors. She is informed on everything. Nothing gets done without her knowledge or approval.”
After weeks of preparation and attention to protocol, the encounter was to take place. Mary had arranged for beautiful pieces of ornamental furniture to be made for the Valida and her favorites, who included the wife of the Grand Vezir, with whom Mary intended to have an intimate chat about the vaccine. Other treats from England—chandeliers, candelabra, lace, silver trays, teas, and an elaborate samovar—were procured and packed. Mary’s wardrobe had also been carefully designed. There would be as many costume changes today as in one of Mr. Shakespeare’s five-act plays, and Mary would be expected to be splendidly outfitted for every aspect and ritual.
The early-morning boat ride was not pleasant. The weather was boisterous, winds whipping the water into undulating waves while rain poured down upon the passengers. Dawn was a slow, gray revelation. Mary sat huddled under the small boat’s shelter, wrapped in fur, feeling as if she were engulfed by a huge bear carrying her hurriedly across some broken terrain. The weather had been damp these two months, and her chokings had returned. The attacks were not serious, but were prolonged by her being out every night in the clammy air, or dancing Scottish reels until the wee hours at the balls. Finally they arrived at the shore, and a phalanx of black eunuchs met Mary at the Great Gate to the Sultan’s palace, waiting to escort her to the seraglio and the meeting with the Valida.
As soon as Mary passed by the Janissaries on duty, and the gate to the seraglio shut, the eunuchs disappeared, and Mary and her entourage of Masterman, Mad
ame Pisani, and two servants were met by dozens of women, all magnificently dressed. Two led her by the arms while one very grand lady walked before them with perfumes smoking in an incense tray of gold filigree. The heavy scent of Indian spices, with cinnamon mingling with sweet myrrh, overwhelmed Mary’s senses as she followed her escorts. They led her upstairs, where Hanum met her on the landing, screaming with joy at the sight of her. She took Mary into a small room, where she helped her arrange her clothing after the long voyage. Two women held a looking glass for Mary so that she could see herself. Mary was more interested in watching Masterman’s expression on the other side of the glass than in gazing at her own flushed face. After she fixed her hair and smoothed her eyebrows, she whispered to Masterman, asking if the woman was feeling well.
“You should see the back of that looking glass,” Masterman said. “You’ve never seen pearls and diamonds so numerous and so large!”
Once Mary had been refreshed with coffee and sweetmeats, Hanum announced that it was time to meet the Valida. She escorted Mary to a room with elaborately tiled walls, which were decorated with inscriptions that seemed to move like dancers. Mary saw a small figure seated upon a sofa—a woman with a beautiful scarlet shawl embroidered with gold spangles flung over her shoulders. The Valida was seated cross-legged—à la Turque, as Mary had come to think of the women’s preferred posture—and the great shawl was draped in a way that made it look as if her legs had been cut off. Her hair was tucked up inside an elegant, cone-shaped yellow silk turban, with thick dark fringe across the forehead. Mary noticed that all the women in attendance had tucked up their hair as well, perhaps in imitation of the Valida’s style.
“Those are real thumpers,” Masterman whispered as Mary walked away from her attendants to be seated upon the sofa opposite the Valida. Masterman meant the diamonds the Valida was wearing, which were immense. Eight formed a tiara of sorts on her head, while the one on her little finger was the largest and most brilliant Mary had ever seen, even larger than the dazzling rock—worth twelve thousand pounds—that she and her mother had ogled one day in London at Rundell & Bridge. On a cushion nearby lay a watch covered with diamonds, and an inkstand and large portfolio, all studded over with rubies and giant smooth sea pearls. The Valida also kept near her a small looking glass embedded with precious stones. The lavish gifts heaped upon the Elgins by the Turks must have been mere trinkets to them.
