Old Men in Love

6: AT ASPASIA’S

The evening was less agreeable than Pericles wished because Alcibiades arrived and insisted on talking politics. Pericles listened with an air of polite attention that his nephew vainly tried to make serious attention. Socrates and Aspasia watched them from across the room. Aspasia said, “You love our Darling?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe you can help him — I can’t because he doesn’t trust women. Yet he won’t grow up properly without the love of someone he admires. He knows it, too. Most of his lovers have been intelligent older men of good character, but he shatters them. After a week or two they grow servile and pathetic. So the only man he can admire is Pericles.”

“Who can only love Athens.”

“And Heavenly Reason,” she suggested.

“And you.”

She smiled, smoothing the dress over her breasts and murmuring, “I think so. I wish more women would come here, my girls are too few. I’ve asked our cleverest men to bring their wives but they won’t.”

“Housewife talk is mostly limited to household matters.”

“Yes, because Athenian husbands treat them like slaves. When a man’s friend calls on him, even during a meal, the wife retires to a back room with the children. Which is barbaric. No wonder the men here prefer boys and prostitutes.”

“In Sparta,” said Socrates thoughtfully, “boys and girls are educated by the state.”

“Educated to wrestle and fight! So Spartan women grow up as harsh and brutal as their husbands. But in Aolia the women walk the streets in brightly coloured gowns and meet in colleges where they practise every beautiful art from embroidery to poetry and love. Which is why the greatest Greek poet is an Aolian woman.”

“Sappho?”

“You disagree?”

Socrates said gently, “Some think highly of Homer.”

“A killer’s poet. The pains and glories of warfare are the best things he knows. But Sappho sang of the wounds love inflicts and love is the best thing of all.”

After a pause Socrates said mournfully, his eyes still on The Darling, “Yes.”

“Listen,” said Aspasia urgently, “His talks with Pericles always end badly. When that one stops he will go to the wine table to make himself drunk. Can you prevent that?”

“I’ll try.”

“Let me tell you how to woo him. You must — ”

“No no no. If my little demon won’t tell me how to do it nobody can.”

“The Oracle at Delphi says our war with Sparta will last thirty years,” said Alcibiades urgently.

“For once the Oracle may be right.”

“You cannot deny that the Persian Empire is in decline.”

“Maybe,” said Pericles.

“Not maybe. Certainly. A nation that conquers beyond its own natural boundawies must keep spweading and spweading because if it calls a halt it inevitably shwinks. Our people have halted Persian expansion so it’s time for a new world empire to awize. And if we twy we can make it — ” (he hesitated and with an effort said,) “ — Grreek. Because Gweek technology and social organization is better than anywhere else and Athens has the biggest fleet in the world!”

“You’re quoting one of my speeches.”

“Our democwacy can send an iwesistible fighting force against any countwy in the world!”

“Only one country at a time.”

“But with all Gweece behind us Athens could wule the Meditewanean — though not while we are fighting each other! A master strrroke of policy is needed to weld us into unity under Athenian leadership. A stwoke that must first take in Sicily because. .”

“My dear nephew,” said Pericles placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “That bright idea is a very old one. I had it when I was your age.”

“I wish I had known you when you were worth talking to,” said Alcibiades icily, shaking off the hand.

He went to the wine table and lifted a full flagon.

“You mustn’t drink that terrible stuff,” said a voice at his elbow. Startled he looked sideways and saw nobody at first, being a head taller than the speaker who, with a surprisingly strong grip, took the flagon from Alcibiades’ hand, tilted back his head and emptied the wine down his throat in one long continuous swallow.

“Now then,” he said, placing the flagon on the table with no sign of breathlessness and the air of someone getting down to business, “You look at yourself a lot in the mirror I hope?”

“Yes I do,” said the young man coolly. “Why do you hope that?”

“It should help you to become what you appear to be.”

“Which is?”

“Good.”

“You believe beauty encouwages virtue?” said Alcibiades incredulously.

“Yes! A soul that doesn’t fit its body is as uncomfortable as a foot that doesn’t fit its shoe.”

“And ugliness?” said Alcibiades, staring at the hairy face with the broken nose.

“Ugliness encourages virtue even more. If we don’t cultivate our virtues nobody will talk to us. . will they?”

Alcibiades smiled and relaxed a little. Socrates raised a forefinger saying, “Listen! Beautiful people envy your beauty, brave men admire your courage, clever folk respect your intelligence. This city dotes on you. Everything you do has become fashionable, from lisping to horse racing. And if you thought you would be like this for the rest of your life you’d kill yourself.”

“Yes. I want to be… grrreat!”

“I’m glad. But there are many false kinds of greatness. You must learn to discard those.”

“What do they look like?”

“I don’t know,” said Socrates, smiling and shaking his head. “I’m ignorant, I’m no expert. But you want to enter politics in a big way?”

“Yes.”

“And become a statesman like Pericles?”

“Not like Pewicles. You know how he wants us to win this war. ‘Fight the Spartans when we have to,’ he says, ‘but do it as seldom as possible. We’re wicher than them, so if the war lasts long enough they’ll go bankwupt first.’ How vewy wise! How abominably mean!”

In another corner of the room three of Athens’ richest men were gathered, each having discovered that Pericles would not speak to them. One was Theramines, nicknamed The Golden Mean, being a moderate politician who kept changing his political allegiances on grounds of political principle. Nicius, nicknamed High Anxiety, dealt largely in slaves. He was a cautious, successful general and diplomat whose wealth and political success had not incurred the envy of The Many, who regarded him with genial condescension because he was as full of superstitious fear as an ignorant peasant. Critias, a younger man, had inherited a big estate and was not yet eminent enough to have a nickname. He said, “Think of it! A stinking skin-merchant like Cleon leading the Athenian empire! It could happen.”

“He’s a free citizen like you and me,” said the Golden Mean mildly. “If he won’t see reason we should bribe him.”

“Bribing a demagogue is like pouring sacks of salt into the sea,” said High Anxiety glumly. “Twenty-five years ago The Few could get rid of Cleon through a quiet little street accident —” (he made an upwards stabbing gesture) “— The same thing today would start a revolt. Nobody’s property would be safe.” “We’re more civilized nowadays,” said the Golden Mean cheerfully.

“The Many are like spoilt children!” said Critias fiercely. “Pericles has given them far too much — full employment! Disabled workmen’s compensation! Pensions for widows and public sanatoriums. Nowadays you can’t even tell a slave from a freeman by the clothes they wear.”

“Sports festivals,” said High Anxiety, sighing, “religious festivals with drama and music. I’ve paid for a lot of that. Prominent men aren’t safe if they don’t make themselves popular.”

“Most social welfare is paid for out of the United Greek Defence Treasury — not from our pockets,” the Golden Mean pointed out. They brooded on that for a moment then High Anxiety said, “The refugee camp — have you heard the news from there?”

They had not. He told them that two days before some refugees had died of black putrescent swellings in the armpits and groin; Dr Archileos had attended them and had died that morning of the same illness.

“A plague,” said the Golden Mean slowly, “could compel us to negotiate peace with Sparta. I doubt if Pericles could survive that. He acts like a god but he’s not immortal.”

“The fates are tired of him,” said High Anxiety, “A sheep on his farm near Megera has given birth to a unicorn — a black ram with a single horn here —” (he touched the centre of his brow) “— instead of two. It was born blind in the early hours of the morning and died six hours later at the height of noon. You see what that means?”

The others smiled and shook their heads.

“It means Athens will be destroyed if it continues to be governed by one man. A well balanced state needs two leaders, one for The Many, another for The Few. Well, The Many have their Cleon. If you speak out for The Few, Theramines, you will get my vote.”

“And mine,” said Critias.

“You are more suited to that job,” the Golden Mean told High Anxiety, “since you read the omen that way. Has Heavenly Reason said anything about the unicorn?”

“Yes. He opened the skull and found the brain was distorted. Instead of two lobes like a walnut it had one that came to a point, like an egg. He said it was one of those freak births by which Nature sometimes produces new species. Most distortions are unhealthy so the brute dies, but when a new shape is useful to a beast it lives and gives birth to more with that shape. It’s useless arguing with Heavenly Reason of course. He may be absolutely right, scientifically speaking, but I believe Nature is governed by Fate so is full of warnings for us. The unicorn was born on Pericles’ farm so is obviously a warning to him.”

“What are you plotting, my fellow citizens?” asked Aristophanes, joining them.

“Do you think we’ll tell a popular political satirist that? Think again,” said the Golden Mean, smiling.

“Behold!” cried the dramatist, pointing to the couple at the wine table. “Our Darling is adding philosophy to his empire.” “I hope Socrates doesn’t suffer by it,” said Critias. “Nobody is better company — he’s amusing as well as wise.”

“Socrates suffer?” said the comedian chuckling, “He’s incapable of suffering. His demon protects him against attackers from every quarter of the compass.”

Socrates was saying, “So you feel able to advize the Athenian state?”

“Yes.”

“On shipbuilding? Or where to dig a new harbour?”

“Of course not. Shipwrights and surveyors know about those things. I would advize on the largest political matters — war and peace.”

“So you know the right times to go to war.”

“Yes.”

“And the right people to fight.”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean by ‘right’?”

“I mean — ” said Alcibiades, paused, then sat down, pressing a finger to his lower lip.

“That’s not a hard question,” said Socrates helpfully, “What reasons do we give when we go to war?”

“We say we’re wesisting a wicked thweat, or haven’t been paid what we’re owed.”

“So when you advize people to make war you’re talking about justice? A war is right when it is just?”

“Not…always. Though when it is not just we have to pwetend it is.”

“Then you might advize the Athenian people to fight an unjust war?”

“Yes,” said Alcibiades boldly, “Because I love my land and her laws and any action which incweases her safety or power will seem wight to me!”

“Well said. And if a friend meant to increase his safety or wealth by killing or robbing a neighbour, what would you say if he asked for advice on the right time to do it?”

“You know what I would say,” said Alcibiades groaning. “But one citizen is not an entire state. What is bad for the first can be good for the second.”

“Hum. Tell me, which people do you admire most: those who risk their lives fighting injustice or those who increase their power by unjust fighting?”

“You know what I would admire most. Usually. Under normal circumstances.”

“But there are political circumstances when you would urge the people you love most to do the thing you admire least?”

“Yes!” said Alcibiades desperately. “Yes, because it is customawy political behaviour.”

Socrates, who had been leaning tensely forward in pursuit of the argument, clapped a hand to his brow and staggered back as if from a stunning blow.

“By Zeus I never thought of that! You’re right, you know. You argue beautifully. You’ve really driven me into a corner, Alcibiades. I don’t think there’s an answer to that one.”

His hearer stared at him suspiciously. Socrates said in a very ordinary voice, “So you plan to be one of those customary politicians? The kind that do what most people would do in their position? But didn’t you start by saying you wanted to be great?”

Alcibiades rubbed the side of his face ruefully while Socrates watched him keenly, kindly. Aristophanes the comic playwright had been listening to them for some time. With a forefinger he prodded Socrates in the chest saying, “I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with S.”

They looked at him enquiringly. He appeared to be slightly drunk which was not the case but enabled him to talk more freely at parties. He said, “Sssseduction. You, Ssssocrates are trying to sssseduce our Darling.”

“I’m hoping to make a friend of him.”

“No, you’re fishing for another disciple. All this man’s friends are his disciples, Alcibiades. You must have seen them around the marketplace. There’s a fat drunkard who makes money by telling rich folk that the goal of life is happiness, and a thin man in rags who says he’s a realist and would rather be dead than happy. There’s Chaerephon, a scientific democrat who investigates the guts of beetles and wants total equality of income, and Critias, that mine-owner over there who says only the rich should be allowed to vote. There’s even a cobbler who acts as unpaid secretary and writes down their conversations! A very peculiar crew.”

“What do you teach them, Socwates?” asked Alcibiades.

“Nothing,” he said smiling, “Nothing but what I learned from my mother, Phaenarete, the midwife.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She wasn’t a prolific woman. With my father’s help she made only one human being — ” Socrates slapped his chest “— but she helped a lot of others into the light who would never have opened their eyes without her, and aborted some that weren’t wanted. Have you heard of my voice? My demon?”

“Who hasn’t?” said Aristophanes.

“It’s nothing special,” said Socrates, ignoring him, “Everybody has one and it’s the best, the truest bit of them, but a lot of folk can’t hear their inner voice because of loud ideas shoved at them by friends and experts, greedy cliques and governments. Good ideas are a gift from God. He doesn’t send me any so I try to rid my friends of ideas that don’t fit them. I want to hear your voice, Alcibiades, telling me the fine godly things you really believe. But before I hear that voice you’ll have heard it first: inside yourself.”

“How do you rid folk of bad ideas?” said Aristophanes. “Do you use a flue-brush?”

“I use dialectics,” said Socrates, smiling at him.

Alcibiades stood up and told the comedian, “I’m going to a very different party from this one, but I want to see this ugly little wisest man again. May I, Socwates?”

“Please, yes.”

Alcibiades left. The comedian chuckled, helped himself to wine, said admiringly, “You really are a demon. I was trying to spoil your game but I helped you with it. I helped you with it!” “Have you money to spare, Aristophanes?”

The comedian produced a small leather bag, tossed it up and caught it overhand with a chinking sound.

“Can I have some?” said Socrates humbly. The comedian untied the mouth of the bag and held it out. Socrates removed four silver coins. His friend said, “Take more”.

“This is enough. A little at a time from a lot of different people stops them crossing the street to avoid me.”

“You’ll soon wish you had taken the whole purse because I am going to mock you in a play.”

“Why?”

“Because I am sick of clever buggers hanging about the market spouting smart ideas that leave ordinary, sensible people confused.”

“I am not a bugger Aristophanes and, as I’ve just said, I do my best to weed out what you call smart ideas.”

“Perhaps, but there are still too many clever buggers around and if I mocked the others they would sue me for libel. You won’t. Will you?”

“No.”

“Because your demon won’t let you!” cried the comedian, laughing.

“That’s right,” said Socrates sadly.