Dt 
 
6 
 
 & 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
THE POWERS OF THE AIR 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 POETRY 
 
 1899. THE VINEDRESSER AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 1901. APHRODITE AGAINST ARTEMIS 
 
 1903. ABSALOM 
 
 1903. DANAE 
 
 1905. THE LITTLE SCHOOL 
 
 1906. POEMS 
 1911. MARIAMNE 
 
 1911. A SICILIAN IDYLL 
 
 1914. THE SEA IS KIND 
 PROSE 
 
 1899. THE CENTAUR AND THE BACCHANT, FROM 
 
 THE FRENCH BY MAURICE DE GUERIN 
 
 1900. ALTDORFER 
 
 1904. DURER 
 1906. CORREGGIO 
 
 1910. ART AND LIFE (FLAUBERT AND BLAKE) 
 
 1915. HARK TO THESE THREE 
 1919. SOME SOLDIER POETS 
 
THE POWERS 
 
 OF THE AIR 
 
 T. STURGE 
 
 MOORE 
 
 GRANT RICHARDS LTD 
 
 EIGHT ST MARTIN'S STREET 
 
 LONDON MDCCCCXX 
 
TO ROBERT CALVERLEY AND ELIZABETH 
 TREVELYAN 
 
 493221 
 
 ENGLISH 
 
THE POWERS OF THE AIR 
 
 My father sailed the sea, saw Egypt's tombs 
 
 Like polished hills high as Acropolis, 
 
 An hundred miles inland, yet reached by ships : 
 
 Saw Caucasus, whose coping of pure snow 
 
 Supports the delicate tent of azure air 
 
 That stretches thence above the highest cloud. 
 
 But I had feared a life adventureless 
 
 Was buckled to my crooked spine had feared 
 
 Never to have the wherewithal to whet 
 
 That second appetite of feasted friends 
 
 Which craves for tales of straits and jeopardies 
 
 That garnished those near faces with odd smiles : 
 
 Yet lo ! I write to recount things heard, seen, 
 
 In which I even took a trifling part : 
 
 And witness the more fully what occurred 
 
 Because the actors noticed me no more 
 
 Than their own shadows. 
 
 Not another word ! 
 
 Till I have thanked Aristocles, broad-chested, 
 Apollo-headed, generous, gentle soul, 
 Who has spared hours from a life, divine 
 With health and wealth and fine capacity 
 For thought and feeling, seconding my blunt 
 Unlikely stilus, till what follows here 
 Is now more worth my theme than I dared hope. 
 O noble man ! my heart, though much enlarged, 
 Endures for thy sake silence, after this ; 
 For iterance spoils thanks, though more be due 
 Than Hellas owes to Helios, fruits and flowers. 
 
 Few ever think what great toil is involved 
 Spreading the tacky pigment on a wall; 
 
 8 
 
What nicety applying heat with irons 
 To flush the wax, yet so that it run not. 
 When every figure's outline is fulfilled 
 With browns and varied pallors mocking flesh ; 
 Then must each be enisled by the ground tint 
 As vivid green creek, foil to a shoal of swimmers, 
 Shows up their clear-cut vigour on its depth. 
 Parrhasios, king of painters, heaves a sigh 
 When he sinks back upon a couch to rest 
 And ponder the effect of what is done. 
 It soothes him then if I begin to read 
 From Pindar, Sappho, or Anacreon. 
 He first was brought to Athens on the ship 
 Whose captain was my father open-souled, 
 Heard of my plight and eased its weight at once 
 Found in his own this function for my life, 
 To study precious scrolls the while he worked ; 
 Then, when his eye from effort sank bemused, 
 To read aloud what silence had prepared 
 Lest the tongue stumble or obscure the sense 
 Through ill-foreseeing all the poet's drift. 
 Thus I, a voice withdrawn from sight, attend 
 Upon the outskirts of his fecund hours ; 
 For that is pain for him which in the street 
 Stirs callous mirth. I keep behind him, flit 
 From screen to screen, to cross his field of view ; 
 His glance avoids the encounter with like care. 
 On guard against the give and take of speech 
 We both are, for direct exchange would bring 
 The image of my impotence to mind, 
 Which cannot hinder when a poet's words 
 With eagle beauty carry off the soul. 
 And thus our lives are fellows, though we talk 
 More rarely than cold neighbours ; yet to others 
 I hear him, lavish with encouragement, 
 
Even aver that my voice trains itself 
 As athlete does a well-proportioned frame ; 
 His phrase ran that at last it might become 
 " Agile and sensitive with seemly grace." 
 
 A full heart's tip-toe impulse has so far 
 Moved me as my two benefactors soar, 
 Poet and painter on broad-pinioned rhythm. 
 Now, gratitude expressed, I fade and am 
 A longer-memoried echo, a mere voice 
 Repeating others' words, describing scenes 
 As sheltered pool shows solemn poplar stems 
 How Zephyr sways their tops against the blue. 
 
 10 
 
II 
 
 Three months ago I hurried at daybreak through 
 the still deserted streets to Andokides' shop ; for 
 he had not sent a certain oinochoe, the present 
 Parrhasios intended for Dione that afternoon. 
 The potter was already abroad, but there, behind 
 the palisade gates of his shop, I could see the 
 chosen flagon. Dolon, his foreman, dared not 
 break the seal on the lock and open the show- 
 room ; besides, the vase was still empty, for it was 
 to his partner's that Andokides was gone to fetch 
 the sacred oil. Though the streets were filling 
 with the holiday crowd I determined to wait, and 
 so prevent all risk of my benefactor's disappoint- 
 ment. The fellow, slightly chagrined that I dis- 
 regarded his promise to bring the vase on his 
 master's return, went back to pound clay in the 
 yard. I could see him stooping over the bin 
 whenever I looked up from reading Bacchylides. 
 Presently two other hands, the one as dwarfish 
 as his companion was hulking, entered by a back 
 way, and this latter shouted: "Aristophanes 
 would give a great price for Smikros, if you 
 want to turn slave-dealer," and he pushed the 
 stumpy tousle-headed lad forward, " He struts 
 like any Alcibiades. He feels like Pericles though 
 he looks like a rat." 
 
 ' Bite ! " cried the little man ; and leaping up 
 crammed a carrot into the broad smile above him. 
 
 While Dolon laughed at them, the vast lout 
 shook with exaggerated appreciation of his own 
 predicament. When he had freed his jaws, he 
 spluttered : "Do that just so on the stage and 
 the audience will keep the next joke waiting. 
 
But your ear for what I was on the point of 
 telling you, your ear for that ! '" and he flung his 
 interrupter staggering across the court. 
 
 " Larks before sunrise, ahead of the crowd," 
 he went on, " we've been to see Parrhasios' new 
 picture, ' The Powers of the Air.' Smikros 
 plants that big littleness of his before the panel 
 and cries out : ' Magnificent ! Look, Orithyia's 
 eye is like a rabbit's when it feels a hand close 
 over its ears ! Her mouth opens ; there's a bubble 
 in her throat ! What a contrast to Iris ; she 
 escapes as featly as a wrestler ! Ha, old Satyros, 
 down you go in the mud ! And he counted so on 
 her suckling a bob-tailed brat. The trick was all 
 but done ! Wasn't it, old Goat ? ' and all this 
 like no end of a sophist surrounded by neatly 
 sandalled boys ; for every slave had stopped 
 work to listen." 
 
 Though I heard these phrases only at second- 
 hand, the heavy lout recalled them with such 
 relish that fundamental excellences of my dear 
 master's invention, like flames from stirred logs, 
 flashed up, having become flaked over by the 
 insistence of his friends and admirers on the 
 sweep of his line, the distinction of his types, and 
 the fine proportions of his figures. Besides, this 
 panel had hung in the great workroom so long 
 that my mind no longer saw what my eyes looked 
 at, and the boy-draughtsman's references to the 
 crudities of life brought its dramatic force and 
 human wealth over me as never before. Not 
 that he was blind to other qualities, for Gryllus 
 continued with exaggerated mimicry : 
 
 " ' What a blue Hera's cloak is, powdered 
 lapis ! Her chiton towers like a white cloud at 
 
 12 
 
noon. There's an arm to spank boys with ! 
 Gossips need not pity her though she bore twins 
 yearly ! An excellent stroke that, to make 
 Boreas' white locks curve like the edges of a 
 thunderstorm against his black cloak ; but with 
 such a rush she should already be on his shoulder 
 and float out behind him in her forget-me-not 
 smock,' and he began daubing the air like Phoebus 
 painting out Chaos and old Nyx. And all this 
 because some of his ratship's pots have been 
 bought in preference to the boss's. Was ever 
 pygmy so huge in his own conceit ! " 
 
 The little fellow, who had returned to dance 
 all round the big Gryllus with a second carrot, at 
 last, like a mountain cat, was on his shoulders, 
 from which vantage he brought the report to an 
 end ; but soon found himself shaken off into the 
 wet clay, and a big shutter on which they knead 
 it up into loaves clapped over the bin like a lid 
 and sat on, while Dolon roared with laughter. 
 The sounds from inside were by no means so 
 merry. They let Smikros out. He stumped 
 across to the trough to clean himself and rinse his 
 shirt. The fun was spoiled, but the others were 
 too awkward not to continue. 
 
 ' That's all there is of him," jeered Gryllus ; 
 "if it were not so bristly 'twould be a toad, and 
 a spike or two more would make an hedgehog. I 
 thought my eyes were mad when he seized a mop 
 from a slave and flew straight for a pail of colour 
 and begins slapping me his great swinging strokes 
 across the floor. The dumbfounded slaves 
 scratched their heads and grunted. I pulled at 
 Smikros to bring him to his senses. Not a bit of 
 use. He was still scrabbling when in came 
 
 13 
 
Parrhasios. His myrmidons impeach our midget. 
 The Zeus of limners thunders : ' Turn him out ! 
 Wash up this mess ! ' Buckets of water and 
 mops hurry forward, but dauntless, our 
 Prometheus cries with his cracked voice, ' Look, 
 Parrhasios, would not your Orithyia swim hi 
 better as I have sketched her ? Look, and I 
 will help clean the floor myself ! ' The highly- 
 groomed father of paints and brushes . . ." 
 but here Andokides returned. 
 
Ill 
 
 Again Parrhasios' workroom was open to sight- 
 seers. A rope stretched from end to end prevented 
 their coming within several yards of the panels 
 ranged against the west wall. The one intended 
 for the dining-hall of Cephalos showed Boreas 
 carrying off Orithyia to the right, in the centre 
 Hera, and on the left Iris escaping from a satyr ; 
 the other, destined to adorn the loggia of Kallias, 
 first showed Eos pitying Tithonus, then Phoebus, 
 from whose outstretched arms fell on the one side 
 Phaethon, on the other Icarus ; to the left again, 
 Cynthia admired the sleeping Endymion. The 
 great Sardian carpets, by which light from the 
 portico can be shut out, were folded and tied back 
 against either wall ; beyond its pillars the sun- 
 drenched awning slanted out half across the 
 court. I could just see the basin in its centre 
 flash beyond the edge of the sailcloth. The plain 
 walls towering up to the painted rafters, white with 
 vermilion rulings, dwarfed and solemnized the 
 groups of chattering townsfolk clustered along 
 the barrier. To give the air movement the high 
 shutters at the north end were all open, and in 
 the balcony just under them I sat, as I often do 
 when Parrhasios is at work, so that when he 
 exclaims " more light " or " less " I can open or 
 close them. Few of those staring up at the panels 
 noticed my presence, and it was as much a 
 holiday for me to watch and listen to them, as it 
 was for them to see the pictures. I had left both 
 scrolls and writing materials in their chest for 
 this morning ; but as noon drew on the voices 
 hushed, till the whispering of dusty feet became 
 
 15 
 
the dominant sound, and I fell a-dreaming, while 
 my eyes wandered from the room along the Sacred 
 Way cleaving the olive-yards to the north-west, 
 and at last rested on the pale amethyst curtain of 
 Cithaeron which divides the skies of Attica from 
 those of Bceotia. Before Eleusis the intensely 
 blue loop of its bay set off the faint hues of the 
 broiling land, and I saw the " invisible messengers, 
 swift without wings," passing between the 
 " ethereal halls " and the " green curtained 
 porches of Poseidon's palace " as I crooned to 
 myself : 
 
 ' Ribboned Iris a-stream and Hermes with pin- 
 ioned shoon ! 
 Through the twilight of dawn and of eve, through 
 
 the brilliance of noon, 
 Unwearied by distance, unoppressed by the 
 
 tyrannous glare, 
 Their hearts braced strong as the azure, their 
 
 limbs like the salt sea air. 
 Their life is the thought that they carry, from the 
 
 mind of a god to a god 
 When the deep sea counsels Olympus ..." 
 
 Suddenly a strident voice cried in the room 
 beneath me : ' That's my figure ! Don't pretend 
 you've forgot ; I sketched it on these flags and 
 you've bagged it." When my eyes became 
 reaccustomed to the comparative darkness of the 
 room, I saw that the dwarfish potter, Smikros, 
 had slipped inside the rope and was approaching 
 a group nearer the pictures, Parrhasios, Aristocles, 
 Dione, and Kallias. Trie master, who advanced 
 between his friends and the vase painter, had 
 evidently brought them to see the panels, taking 
 advantage of the lull and quiet of noon. Dione 
 
 16 
 
uttered a little scream as I turned, and, gliding 
 forward, tried to draw the master away from the 
 waspish vehemence which seemed about to attack 
 him. Two slaves hurried up and seized Smikros 
 by the arms. Now, as my eyes began to forget 
 the glare outside, I could see how Parrhasios' 
 head, neck, shoulders and bare arm had flushed 
 deeply. His black beard was scrupulously 
 trimmed, and on his glossy embalmed locks he 
 wore the silver-gilt crown of taper swallows' 
 wings, the emblem of his acknowledged sovranty 
 among painters ; since with feathers from the 
 wing tips of this bird he traces those rapid and 
 subtle outlines for which he is above all renowned. 
 His himation was deep green, but that of Aris- 
 tocles, who, golden and powerful as Phcebus, 
 had both arms and shoulders bare, was white. 
 The lady was wound and draped in blue and 
 violet veils, and her lively arms twinkled with 
 bracelets, while her hair in coral-coloured bands 
 was very artfully disposed. The three were as 
 beautiful as a picture, and Kallias looked as 
 though he intended to buy it. With hesitation 
 the usually fluent master answered his antagonist : 
 " I scarcely remember if I saw the mess on the 
 floor. But the notion that the group might be 
 rehandled certainly dates from the incident to 
 which you refer. You think me your debtor ? 
 Well, I am ready ; at what do you assess your 
 claim ? " Smikros, who was still wriggling be- 
 tween his captors, seemed scarcely to understand, 
 and Aristocles interposed. " Parrhasios, you 
 wrong your art in admitting any claim. We all 
 know that pictured figures closely resemble one 
 another in attitude. Who can think of your 
 
 b 17 
 
Hera apart from that of Mikon, or of his without 
 remembering Polygnotus ? Yet no one confuses 
 for that reason the diverse excellences of the three 
 masterpieces. Not so much as a thousandth part 
 of the admiration we owe your Orithyia can be 
 due to the scrawl this lad produced in the time 
 and manner of which you spoke to me." 
 
 " My dear," replied Parrhasios, " he believes 
 that he has helped me ; it is with that belief 
 and not with the actual facts that I am concerned. 
 What will content you ? " he asked the straggler. 
 
 " Write under the group," the undaunted dwarf 
 replied, ' ' The attitude of this figure was given 
 to Parrhasios by Smikros, the painter of vases.' ' 
 
 " You are certain that your figure resembled 
 mine ? " smiled the master. 
 
 " In the main it did." 
 
 " Well then I ..." 
 
 " But, Parrhasios," Aristocles interposed again, 
 " this is madness ! Allow me to prevent the 
 utterance of words which you are bound to regret. 
 You have just given us most excellent reasons for 
 breaking with the custom of adding names to 
 identify the figures in your pictures. Let my 
 purse save your masterpiece. Turn him out and 
 toss this after him," he ordered the slaves. 
 Parrhasios made a movement as though he would 
 arrest them, but Dione clung to his arm and 
 Aristocles was obeyed. " It is impious to imagine 
 that the gods bestow any important gift at 
 random," he continued. " How could the circum- 
 stances and breeding that have resulted in such 
 an oaf be chosen for the nice unfolding of a 
 lofty invention ? The bare suggestion reproaches 
 Zeus. The illiberal lives of artisans and sailors 
 
 18 
 
are no soil for such flowers. You yourself doubted 
 whether the figure he daubed on these flags bore 
 any resemblance to that in your panel. How 
 could his coarse senses and untrained intellect 
 descry what was and what was not like your 
 creation ? Besides, his memory is more than a 
 month old. We see how the most carefully reared 
 citizens dispute over the likeness that Pheidias 
 has left us of Pericles. Of what grotesque mis- 
 conceptions that hairy monster must then be 
 capable ! " 
 
 Parrhasios was once more fully himself. ' Your 
 generous friendship has my heart's warmest 
 thanks. I truly believe that my figure owes but 
 little to our lusty claimant, yet I regret that 
 even the meanest of my subjects should think me 
 less than kingly, which prompts me. ..." 
 
 " Banish the thought," cried the imperious 
 Aristocles, " we who best appreciate it are now 
 convinced that your magnanimity is not bounded 
 even by reason." 
 
 " I wear this crown because Zeuxis confessed 
 my supremacy, acknowledging his candour with 
 my own. What I took from this Smikros was a 
 seed ; sown in other minds it might have died, 
 but in mine it grew : shall I refuse this small 
 satisfaction to one whose thought I have made 
 my own ? ' 
 
 " Do nothing rashly ; the gods wink flashes 
 through the mind ; sometimes they synchronise 
 accidentally with grotesque circumstances, but 
 this should not detract from their divine origin." 
 Dione arrested the vehemence of the poet by 
 shaking her bangles like silver bells, and Par- 
 rhasios remonstrated, " My dear, my dear, seek 
 
 19 
 
not to balk a resolution that fills me with con- 
 tent." Then the lady chimed in with a new 
 music, " My Parrhasios is luxurious in this as in 
 everything. Whatever he handles must be choice ; 
 so too in his mind nothing cloudy, cross-grained 
 or derogatory to the dream of his life is permitted 
 to lodge." 
 
 " Ionian softness ! " muttered Aristocles. Then 
 Kallias smilingly interfered. ' Your severity is 
 Lacedaemonian," he said to the young man ; 
 " the Periclean moderation lies between taking 
 advantage of every snowfall to spend the night 
 in the open, and sheltering mind and body from 
 the least rude or sordid contact." 
 
 " Dear Aristocles," cried Parrhasios, " am I 
 despised in the heart that for nearly six months 
 has seemed open to me as the house of a brother ? " 
 The poet embraced and kissed the painter, then 
 laughed. ' What do I know of how Zeus scatters 
 happy thoughts over the human crowd ? Is the 
 nautilus wiser, soft-bodied in its pearl-coated 
 shell, or the crab whose skin is as hard as the 
 other's house ? " 
 
 ' This skin, though as brown, will never be 
 as hard as the crab's," cried the master, admiring 
 the muscular symmetry of his young friend's 
 arms which he still held by the hands. " Pardon 
 me," the other rejoined, " but I spent yesterday 
 walking under this broiling sun with Socrates, 
 whose single valour nearly retrieved the disaster 
 at Delium. He wanted to persuade me that 
 poetry was employment unworthy of a noble 
 mind, which should be solely and only dedicated 
 to truth. He still trains his body as rigorously 
 as I have done, but is even more stringent with 
 
 20 
 
his mind, and yet is as pious as our grandfathers 
 were. He reproached me with the ' Ionian soft- 
 ness ' of my scepticism and enthusiasm. I was 
 nettled, and dared not complain of the sun and 
 dust which he seemed scarcely to notice. Such, 
 most gifted Ephesian, is the true cause of my 
 irritability, that even a night's sleep has not 
 eradicated." 
 
 " Avoid that Socrates, dear," smiled the master. 
 
 " No, no, I am going to ^Egina for three weeks, 
 but then I must have another tussle with my 
 snub-nosed discomforter, and I think I might 
 more easily have the better of him here with you 
 and Dione to see fair play. . . . But my brother 
 will be waiting if I do not hurry ! This incident 
 of the slave's claim would make a good ram's 
 head to shake the walls of Socrates' antique 
 assurance in providence." 
 
 " I should leave his walls unbattered, and rely 
 on distance and policy for preventing any renewed 
 attack," laughed Parrhasios. 
 
 " Be sure he speaks wisdom," chimed in Dione. 
 But the swarthy young man laughed through the 
 golden velvet of an infant beard. "No, no, to- 
 morrow three weeks I will bring him here and 
 send for this Smikros. Socrates shall be judge : 
 you shall plead for the slave while I will speak 
 in your defence. So, till then, leave the picture 
 uninscribed. Farewell! Adieu, Dione Kallias, 
 adieu." 
 
 21 
 
IV 
 
 Socrates stood a full head shorter than Aristocles. 
 Fifty to fifty-six years of age, his demeanour was 
 not unworthy of his company, though his feet were 
 bare, his chiton unbleached, his cloak coarse and 
 scanty. Alert eyes gleamed from a placid face in 
 no sense small-featured. The resemblance to a 
 satyr is due entirely to the shapeless nose. Life- 
 worthiness is the total impression, and athletes 
 admire his toughness as shipwrights that of my 
 father's " Dolphin," proved in so many voyages. 
 The sun was doubly excluded from the lofty 
 workroom by the awning in the court and the 
 Sardian carpets which shut off the portico. The 
 poet wore a hazy blue himation over white ; 
 Dione, creamy yellow, figured boldly with the 
 curving stems, dart-headed leaves and blue and 
 pink flowers of the convolvulus. Her kerchief 
 snood was pink, with black spots in series of four 
 or five together like the stops of a flute. While 
 the young man was giving Parrhasios and Dione 
 news from Jigina the philosopher stood as much 
 alone as a shepherd in a wide plain, and gazed 
 at the panel entitled ' The Powers of the Air.' 
 At last he glanced up through the open northern 
 shutters above my head, with eyes that seemed 
 to see the moon behind the blue. Later on I 
 found that wide horizons and vast distances were 
 always brought to mind by his repose, as though 
 walls and the city had given place to them. 
 When Aristocles moved, Socrates' eyes dropped 
 to meet his with a smile of real welcome, and 
 thenceforward he seemed to be the host and the 
 others his guests ; and turning with mischievous 
 
 22 
 
urbanity to Dione, while indicating the group of 
 Boreas and Orithyia, he asked, " Dear lady, did 
 Parrhasios woo like that ? ' Dione laughed. 
 ' You know the answer or you would not ask " ; 
 and he continued, " The sculptor who carved 
 the old idol of Poseidon at Piraeus may have 
 wooed like that, but why should we whose manners 
 and art have so improved represent a god so 
 barbarously ? " 
 
 " I conceived it with Aristocles' fine dithyramb 
 in my head," said the master, " which I think 
 expresses very well what is still divine in those 
 old stories." 
 
 [< Let us hear, Aristocles," and the philosopher's 
 smile faded out as, like a sentinel patiently 
 entering on a long night watch, he leant heavily 
 on his staff, while the young man recited : 
 
 ' The spring and the child were tender and gay 
 When out of the north he rushed, 
 Immensely swift, irresistibly strong, 
 And cloaked in passionate black. 
 " My hair is white, 
 Delights are stale, 
 My youth has flown like a dream : 
 But the love of this delicate girl 
 Will replenish my heart till my joys rebud 
 If I give her a kiss," thought he. 
 
 Bronzed arms have clipped her skyey robes 
 
 An anemone flush flickered out 
 
 On the cheek which shrank from his old chapped 
 
 lips. 
 
 As he tore her root from the earth: 
 " Mine, mine," he cried, 
 
 23 
 
" How light she is ! 
 
 The north shall rival the south 
 
 When she sits in the porch of my cave. 
 
 She shall fill my heart till its age shall bloom 
 
 As flagrantly as her youth." 
 
 Exiled, she paled to a shade of herself, 
 
 The north's wan hint of the south ! 
 
 Her sons were savage and turbulent storms ; 
 
 They whirled her memory's plaints 
 
 Like flakes of snow 
 
 Around the god's 
 
 Deject and spiritless head. 
 
 " My strength and my will were vain ; 
 
 For a tentative grace and tact," he moaned 
 
 " Are the secret of warmth and youth." 
 
 " But this condemns the god instead of praising 
 him," cried Socrates. " This is your scepticism," 
 he laughed, " that believes there is nothing divine 
 about the gods, and merely plays with the story." 
 
 '' In my judgment," Parrhasios interposed, 
 " this energy, this pathos and the glimpses of 
 vision are sufficient excuse for poem or picture, 
 and turn the myth to very good account," and 
 Dione added : ' The suggestion that our sex 
 becomes more or less beautiful according to the 
 way in which it is wooed and won gratifies me," 
 and the master flattered her shoulder with a 
 proud approving hand. 
 
 (< My first thought is almost always condemned, 
 no matter what the theme or who the judges," 
 said the philosopher, " but I like to understand 
 where my mistake lies, so with your kind per- 
 mission I will enquire it out. Aristocles, does not 
 action teach and school desire ? " 
 
" Surely, Socrates, it is rather desire which 
 prompts and leads to action ! " 
 
 " Ah, I am wrong. Yet a child wants the 
 moon, a boy wants to over-eat, a young man 
 fitfully desires a thousand different things every 
 day." The poet nodded. ' We wean the child 
 with toys it can handle from the lure of the 
 intangible, we cram the boy's day as full as 
 possible so as to leave only a reasonable time for 
 eating, we get the young man to train seriously 
 and study in view of some one prize so as to focus 
 his desires." Another nod of assent. " Then we 
 discipline all these desires with activities ; and 
 Parrhasios, has not painting taught you to dis- 
 tinguish what can be painted from what it were 
 vain to attempt ? ' 
 
 ' You are quite right, Socrates, it is doing a 
 thing which schools and limits desire ; and it is 
 only a master painter who knows where to stop 
 short." Socrates pretended to pound the floor 
 with his staff as though he were applauding his 
 thought in the theatre, then with roguish glee 
 he turned quickly on Aristocles. " Have not the 
 gods been active for ages ? Then must not their 
 desires be perfectly schooled and concentrated on 
 aims which are accomplished ? ' Aristocles was 
 delighted with the argument . 'You must teach me 
 this skill," he said, offering the philosopher both 
 his hands ; but the staff had to be leant against 
 one of the couches before they could be accepted. 
 
 " Ah ! my Plato, my whole skill is nothing 
 but the dread of taking a counterfeit for truth, 
 as poets and artists are only too ready to do." 
 
 ' You called me Plato three weeks ago," the 
 young man said, " but I cannot guess why." 
 
 25 
 
" Width of brow and breadth of pectoral 
 deserve the name ; they are rarely found together 
 in such splendour," the other answered. 
 
 The painter endorsed this appreciation with 
 a glance first at that powerful frame, then at its 
 appraiser, and then, caressing his beard, resumed : 
 " But seriously, Socrates, you cannot pretend 
 that the divinity of Boreas is self-evident in the 
 myth." 
 
 " Such tales were first told ages since, and 
 perhaps there has been no more scruple over 
 adding to them than our Plato has shown. If I 
 cared to amuse my contemporaries with yet 
 another allegory, I could clinch my argument 
 by remarking that Boreas' energies are now 
 harnessed to the one function which he performs 
 unexceptionably, rushing from the Hyperborean 
 regions with cold air and clouds heavy with rain 
 over lands enervated with heat and dust-storms. 
 If ever he lapsed from this divine and rational 
 activity by ravishing girls, he has doubtless long 
 learnt that only in this one way can he obtain 
 the full satisfaction of success, and would no 
 more dream of attempting to carry off Dione, 
 than you when training for a two-mile race would 
 waste time trying to fly like Icarus. Being a man 
 you recognise that it is no use competing with 
 birds ; being a god, he has discovered the folly of 
 behaving like an ill-bred fellow." 
 
 With the master seated near her feet Dione 
 now lay along one couch with head propped on 
 her hands, so as to gaze over its end at Aristocles, 
 who had drawn the philosopher on to the other. 
 A silence ensued, rendered musical by the cooing 
 of doves. I have often noticed that the emptiness 
 
 26 
 
of the workroom with its bare warm-grey walls 
 and tawny marble floor seems to foster those 
 fitful taciturnities that are apt to fleck conversa- 
 tions before the encountering minds have warmed 
 through. The pictures had been pored on hitherto, 
 but now more than one pair of eyes wandered 
 uneasily. Unlike Zeuxis, the master has every- 
 thing put away as soon as it has served ; so there 
 are no trailing piles of gorgeous raiment, no 
 paintings save the one or two he intends to show, 
 no more couches even than the number of his 
 guests require. Thus the infant silence seemed 
 to find an elder sister on the polished flags and 
 expanse of wall to re-enforce its own strength. 
 Soon, like sea-birds on a floating spar, every gaze 
 sought refuge in the " Trireme/' a triple table, 
 one shelf eighteen inches beneath another. It 
 runs easily on silver-socketed wheels so that with 
 a push or pull the master can keep it handy ; on 
 it are scrupulously ranged the materials of his 
 art jars of powdered earths and stones, gums, 
 wax, naphthas and other vehicles in flasks, the 
 brazier and irons which cause the wax to suffuse 
 the surface of the colour with its polished flush, 
 boxes of various feathers which he splices to reed 
 and cane in fabricating pencils to his need, chalks 
 and charred vine-twigs for essaying outlines, 
 compasses, squares, rulers, plummets, knives. In 
 front of the gaily painted wooden framework a 
 mimic prow advances on which runs a silver 
 victory, a present that Kresilas the old sculptor 
 made the master on the occasion of his success 
 many years before in representing the Athenian 
 Demos. No ship's captain is more meticulous 
 for order and cleanliness than the master ; so 
 
 27 
 
there is constant rivalry among the slaves, and the 
 vessel is entrusted to whoever proves himself most 
 thorough and attentive at his work. This engaging 
 piece of furniture seemed to relieve an oppression 
 that had scarcely lasted long enough to be felt, 
 when Aristocles resumed the lapsed thought thus. 
 " Man is the only animal who can laugh, think 
 and speak ; so I suppose you believe he is destined 
 at last to devote himself entirely to those three 
 activities, even as the swift seems almost to have 
 attained a divine concentration on flight. While 
 I was at ^Egina my father, whose wound has 
 reduced him to passing day and night on a couch 
 in the portico, told me how these birds, unlike 
 the swallows who collect about the eaves and go 
 noisily to bed, continue their swooping evolutions 
 as the light fades, mounting higher and higher ; 
 long after sunset they can be discerned passing 
 across the moon, and in the dawn he had seen 
 them returning from an immense height, always 
 indefatigably glancing to and fro." 
 
 " How lovely," cried Dione, "if at night our 
 thoughts could only climb to ethereal altitudes 
 and remain suspended there till morning recalls 
 them to the earth." 
 
 " My dreams occasionally know a like felicity," 
 said Parrhasios. 
 
 ' Dreams in deified humanity would give place 
 to logic, song to dialectic, and love to laughter, 
 would they not, Socrates ? " quizzed the young 
 man, " and now I come to think of it," he went 
 on, " I have described your life ; for though you 
 trained like an athlete, and fought like a soldier, 
 and have reduced your creature wants to a 
 minimum, you undertook all these rigours not for 
 
 38 
 
their own sake but because through them you 
 could win freedom from the chisel to which your 
 father had apprenticed you, in order to spend the 
 greater portion of your days thinking, talking and 
 laughing/' The philosopher shook with inward 
 mirth at Aristocles' sally, and retorted : " Had 
 I become expert with the chisel like Pheidias, 
 envy might have cast me in prison and charged 
 me with peculation as it did him ; but ambitious 
 persons see that I prefer the company of men too 
 young to be their rivals, and often hearing us 
 laughing, think that I waste my time and are 
 content. Anxieties must have deprived Pheidias 
 of many a good laugh. Parrhasios, Parrhasios, 
 since you wear that crown, have you not found 
 that laughter and ease are deserting you ? ' 
 
 '' Look at those words added to his picture 
 since I was last here," cried Aristocles, " ' Smikros, 
 the painter of vases, gave Parrhasios the attitude 
 of the female figure in this group.' He believes 
 letters to be discordant with the flowing forms 
 of limb and drapery, yet he has sacrificed his 
 conviction, a tribute to envy." 
 
 " Socrates, let me flatter you by stealing from 
 you the inquisitive form of address," said the 
 master. " Do not orators create envy ? Was 
 not Pericles mulcted of his fair share of laughter 
 by his pre-eminence in the art of persuasion ? " 
 
 " Parrhasios, that is why I am always a ques- 
 tioner, and try to persuade others out of their 
 own mouths, having noticed that eloquence from 
 that source is the most frequently successful." 
 Turning to Aristocles, " I praise Parrhasios both 
 for having accepted a good idea from Smikros 
 and for giving him his full share of the praise. 
 
 29 
 
If you were as wise, you would say instead of 
 ' He tore her root from the earth,' which seems 
 suddenly to transform a young girl into a plant, 
 ' he lifted her feet off the earth ' ; and also 
 announce my collaboration whenever you recite 
 your poem." 
 
 " But," the poet protested, " what Boreas did 
 is more truly like tearing a flower up by the roots 
 than lifting a girl off her feet." 
 
 ' There is no persuading these versifiers that 
 a single line they write might be bettered ! Now, 
 I never start a thought but I find someone able 
 to brighten it, and then I receive back my own with 
 as much thanks as I can induce them to accept." 
 
 Aristocles laughed uneasily, rose, and looking 
 round cried, " But why is Smikros not here ? I 
 sent for him." But at this moment Kallias was 
 ushered in, his stiff black cloak enlivened with 
 silver-tailed hares of a dull red that leaped in 
 every direction. Parrhasios, after he had saluted 
 him, led him to Dione's couch, and then seated 
 himself on the other side of Socrates, the young 
 man having resumed his place. Kallias had 
 evidently hurried more than a man of his birth 
 should, and gave apologies for being late an undue 
 importance. The philosopher's interest in them 
 was so marked, that the new-comer soon seemed 
 to address him only ; and when his volubility 
 permitted, Socrates cried, " I warrant that to-day 
 punctuality would have cost you talents of gold, 
 Kallias." 
 
 ' You are right, for I have been out to talk 
 with the captain of one of my ships that has just 
 anchored off Salamis with a cargo of the finest 
 copper ; this must not be whispered in the 
 
 30 
 
market till all is ready ; so I have told him to let 
 no one leave the ship for a day or two," and the 
 merchant king rubbed his hands with content- 
 ment. 
 
 " You want me to tell everyone I meet." 
 Socrates smiled, but the other replied, " I doubt 
 if it could reach the ears that ache for it, even if 
 you did. There are many kinds of men in Athens 
 and some hardly speak your idiom ; their thoughts 
 debar them from communicating with you, as 
 much as though their lips had been sewn up." 
 
 " I have noticed a kind of men," the philosopher 
 replied, " whose heads are ever helmeted and 
 visored lest they should see anyone not their 
 enemy." 
 
 " Speak more plainly," the merchant laughed. 
 
 " I mean those who bleed or are bled by all 
 with whom they have dealings." The merchant 
 grinned and quoted " Peace hath her warriors 
 too," adding, " not all as handsome as Alcibiades." 
 Then the philosopher asked, " Would it not pay 
 as well to bring fine men as fine copper to 
 Athens ? ' 
 
 " She is supposed to breed the best in the 
 world, Socrates," smiled the other ; " but I 
 think I take your meaning, for a very similar 
 thought has occurred to me several times since 
 last I sat here. I hope," he added, turning to 
 Parrhasios, "that Smikros, the potter, has not 
 already left ? " 
 
 ' We are still expecting him." 
 
 " Good ! He set me thinking whether we 
 might not be wise to educate some slave boys as 
 carefully as our sons. If Smikros could give you 
 an idea worth adopting, why should not such 
 
another lad represent me at Tartessos ? The 
 difficulty is how to recognise these talents early 
 enough. I would give you a fortune for a solu- 
 tion to that difficulty, Socrates." 
 
 ' We are all invisible, Kallias." 
 
 " You mean ? ... By Zeus, I fear my brain 
 rusts ! ' 
 
 " If you could see my mind, you would not need 
 to ask." 
 
 "Ah, I am with you ! If I could see a child's 
 brains instead of his body I could place money 
 on him, with security." 
 
 ' When I used to watch the little Alcibiades 
 playing," the philosopher replied, " I sometimes 
 thought ' there is the man we want. He will 
 surpass Uncle Pericles ' ; but then some petulance 
 would make me sigh ' No, he is only a dog.' ' 
 
 ' Why a dog ? ' Aristocles asked. 
 
 ' The dog runs and barks and loses patience 
 with the sheep, but the shepherd stands on a 
 point of vantage whence he can oversee, check 
 and guide him. Generals and statesmen need this 
 aloofness; subalterns curse and worry and rush 
 about like dogs." 
 
 " Well, which was Alcibiades ? ' the young 
 man asked eagerly. 
 
 " I could only see his body, so like a blind man 
 I set out to study the invisible." 
 
 " Study the invisible ? ' Kallias repeated. 
 
 ' The joiner taps the cypress plank and listens 
 to judge if it be sufficiently seasoned. The monger 
 probes the cheese with a grooved bodkin to judge 
 if it be ripe. Questions, such as I have taught 
 myself to ask, like a wet finger collect crumbs of 
 perception about invisible persons. The feast is 
 
 32 
 
for the Gods ; but like a child who rises betimes 
 the morning after his father has had guests, I 
 find enough to taste." 
 
 " But it would be no use my questioning little 
 beggars so high," exclaimed Kallias. " Besides, 
 it would take too long." 
 
 " Ah, this knowledge is only worth talents of 
 gold to you," sighed the philosopher. But here 
 the lady Dione cried, " Question mothers and 
 nurses, Kallias ; they often discriminate characters 
 with surprising shrewdness." 
 
 " But does not love make them praise the least 
 likely most ? " 
 
 " Philosopher," Dione laughed, " how sharp 
 you are ! " 
 
 " But am I not right ? ' 
 
 " Aspasia always taught that the best mothers 
 give most where most is needed, because they love 
 all equally." 
 
 ' The only sound principle of government 
 where the common good is pretended," Aristocles 
 cried, clapping his hands. Socrates then con- 
 tinued : "So Kallias must not question, but 
 contrive to overhear what slave mothers say 
 among themselves ; for he does not pretend the 
 common good, but his own." 
 
 " But have you yet discovered whether Alci- 
 biades is a shepherd or a dog? " Aristocles asked. 
 
 Smikros was here led in by Gryllus, and no 
 answer was returned, for he hung back behind 
 his companion, who dragged him by the belt. This 
 hulking fellow smiled ingratiatingly as he pointed 
 out two bandaged hands that Smikros would fain 
 have hidden. ' The flesh is charred off. Ando- 
 kides thrashed him, you see." He gulped, then 
 
 c 33 
 
with a burst, " He spent the purse on a supper, 
 just as fine as yourselves might ornamented 
 beds and tables, flute girls and slaves to wait, 
 mulled wine; " his voice was once more sunk to 
 a confiding whisper, and then with renewed effort 
 he freed it. " We shall remember it as long as 
 we live ; drunk, speechless, not a man could 
 recollect a single thing." A ripple of mirth 
 greeted this, and Socrates asked, " Were his hands 
 burnt while he was drunk ? ' " No," and the 
 red-faced lout seemed unable to continue. 
 
 " How was it then ? " 
 
 He stooped towards the philosopher and said, 
 " For your ear, Andokides is in some ways the 
 nearest man you could meet though you travelled 
 Greece over. His old furnace is a disgrace, and 
 he has lost ten times the cost of a new one in 
 cracked pots that might have been sound. He 
 buttresses and flanks the old thing till it has no 
 more shape than a dunghill. But the silk lining 
 of this sow's ear is that the foundations of a new 
 one are now laid. But there, he's lost more in 
 Smikros than in spoilt vases, for those hands are 
 never like to draw the lapwing's crest over an 
 amphora's belly again, or I'm much mistaken in 
 doctors." 
 
 " But this is dreadful ! " cried Dione. " Poor 
 lad, are they still painful ? ' 
 
 " He's what you may call turned sullen ; but 
 if you ask me I take it the worst of the smart was 
 over days since, save that an itching torments him 
 towards nightfall." 
 
 " But how did it happen ? " Socrates asked him 
 again. 
 
 "I've lost my beginning," he replied, scratching 
 
 34 
 
his head. " The purse would not pay for the 
 feast no blame to the generous giver so 
 Andokides had to visit his money bags, and 
 that always sours him. Then Smikros must 
 paint the feast on his next crater and write over 
 it ' Smikros, the painter of vases, feasting his 
 companions/ and make himself more like the 
 young gentleman there than anyone short of 
 his mother would have held warranted. So bad 
 day trod on bad day, all as hot as a furnace, till 
 Andokides did not know man from mule or 
 beast from log ; for cruel master he is not, and 
 rarely draws blood, though his thong will flick 
 about, when flies pester as they have lately. 
 Well, he thrashed Smikros nearer to a corpse than 
 I hope to come 'fore I'm laid out. There in the 
 court, day and night, he could hardly sip what 
 we brought him. Andokides was as savage with 
 himself for having done it, as he had been about 
 that supper, for more work was waiting painting 
 than he himself could do. When Smikros could 
 sit up, you never saw worse sullens not a word 
 even for onions fried with cheese. The old furnace 
 lit, cracks again, flames come roaring out. There 
 are always sacks in the trough ready to throw on 
 so that the wet clay may be crammed in and the 
 fault made good. But this gap yawned like 
 Hephaestos' smithy and no one seemed drawn to 
 the job. Andokides turns on Smikros, curses and 
 cries, ' Clap these on quick ! ' and touches his 
 sore shoulders with the thong. Up the lad leaps, 
 lays hold of some sacks and thrusts them in, but 
 before we got enough clay slabbed on, it began 
 to crack and fall and Smikros rolls over, his hands 
 useless for ever, it's my belief, though to cheer 
 
 35 
 
the poor chap I'm always telling him they'll 
 get better. Master, he's savage as though it had 
 been his own son and he treated Smikros like a 
 son most times. Besides, of course, the flame 
 got in among that batch of jars a whole week's 
 work lost and the best hand ruined. Enough to 
 make a man claw his head and his face too," 
 Gryllus ended. 
 
 Parrhasios had risen long before and was 
 pacing to and fro, now covering his eyes and now 
 his ears with his hands. Socrates also had re- 
 gained his feet and leaned on his staff like a 
 watcher on his spear above a battle, attentive 
 only for the signal he was to pass on. Suddenly 
 Aristocles leapt up and walking to Smikros lifted 
 him like a child, planted him before the panel, 
 and said, " Look, read." The effect was magical ; 
 the wretch began to sob and laugh. " Had the 
 promise of that been yours instead of my purse, 
 all this would never have happened." Smikros 
 looked up at Aristocles and seemed to forget the 
 panel. Dione, like an echo, continued Smikros' 
 sobs as they ceased, while Gryllus gazed at the 
 panel, kissed his hand and murmured, <( Who'd 
 have thought it, who'd have thought it ? ' 
 
 Already when my dear master first began 
 roving like a lion in a cage, an impulse forced me 
 to prepare to read, yet the presence of the others 
 had counteracted this ; but when I heard a drop 
 fall from Aristocles' face and saw it shining on 
 the floor at his feet, the silence seemed to implore 
 relief and I began : 
 " Over Latmos slowed the moon : 
 Endymion on the hill 
 Slept in the warm summer night 
 
 36 
 
Without a blanket ; still 
 The forest lay beneath, "the sea beyond. 
 Out of her halting car with grace 
 Selene leaned to view his face : 
 Her gaze grew fond 
 For her high solitary heart was stirred 
 With wonder at the fashion of his youth. 
 But though her blood sing loud, his has not heard 
 Her flushed austerity confess the truth 
 That she is formed to share that sleep 
 And mingle life with his and give 
 And take joy neither he nor she could keep. 
 Yes, there is time to clear her stately mind, 
 Glance on through future years and find 
 Incompatible his mortal with 
 Her immortalities. 
 And when she gave the kiss 
 She meant that it should change 
 His flesh to marble and that he should lie 
 Shapely and naked under every sky, 
 Whether her car athwart the ether range 
 Or darkness fill with 'wildering snow 
 Or storms bring deluges of rain 
 Or under star or sun-light or grey day 
 A steady windy clearness flow 
 Over the lone top. Yea, 
 He lies as he has lain, 
 Posture unchanged, although the face 
 Have weathered, and grey lichen stain 
 And crust youth's nigh obliterated grace 
 Till strangers might pass by, but shepherds say 
 ' Yon stone man sleeps " to turn their eyes his 
 
 way 
 " Since granfeyther's granfeyther's time and 
 
 'fore." 
 
 37 
 
Yet spring and summer still 
 
 Selene as of yore 
 
 Loiters full many a night upon that hill." 
 
 Silence returned, and I saw Socrates peering 
 up towards me while he shaded his eyes with his 
 hand. " Voices in the air," he said, turning to 
 Dione. " A bodiless voice, for so much as I can 
 see has nothing to do with what I have heard. 
 If your true voice is as much more beautiful than 
 what we see of you, I should dearly like to hear it, 
 lady." 
 
 " Do I not use my true voice then, Socrates ? " 
 
 " A man suits his voice to his appearance in 
 order to defend his invisibility." 
 
 " But the young and the beautiful," cried 
 Kallias, " may have to ennoble rather than to 
 degrade its music to match their happy forms." 
 
 ' Unless, Kallias, the invisible is always finer 
 than what we see." 
 
 " I thought you despised poetry, Socrates ? " 
 Dione asked archly. 
 
 " I love the sound of it but dread its propensity 
 for lying, just as I love our Plato's looks, but am 
 scared by the confusions of his mind." Aristocles 
 had left Smikros and stood beside the speakers. 
 The master was busied with the slaves in the 
 portico, and did not turn back into the room, 
 remaining at the division of the carpets looking 
 out. The other three now engaged in a low- voiced 
 conversation which by their glances I divined to 
 concern myself. Kallias left his seat in order 
 to hear what they said. Parrhasios received 
 some spangled muslin from a slave, came forward, 
 whispered to Dione and laid it in her lap ; she 
 rose and drew Aristocles aside, who took the 
 
 38 
 
drapery and turned to Smikros with these words : 
 " I had you brought here that Socrates, who is 
 the wisest man in Athens, might judge between 
 you and Parrhasios. But he has thrown up his 
 case and satisfied you privately, so now I am 
 going to array you as becomes the vanquisher of 
 Parrhasios. Let me first seat you on this stool," 
 and he tilted the sleeping ape from off it, which, 
 grunting, gaping and stretching, hobbled out to 
 the slaves in the portico. In spite of his ugliness 
 this animal has found and kept a place in Par- 
 rhasios' affection. In fact I have heard him say 
 that his human semblance is droll and even 
 pathetic, whereas men are only hideous in apelike- 
 ness. But now Smikros, throne and all, was 
 draped in the vast green veil striped with gold. 
 His head alone remained visible and smiled to see 
 himself so splendid, and still more radiantly when 
 the master set a crown of gilded laurel leaves over 
 his brow. 'Gryllus grinned, " You fancy yourself 
 now, but this finery will spoil you worse than 
 your hands," and then at a sign from Parrhasios 
 withdrew into the portico to the other slaves. 
 I understood that my dear master, unable to 
 endure the sight of those maimed arms, had hit 
 upon this device : but Aristocles now addressed 
 the sage. * The dispute has been privately com- 
 posed which you came here to judge ; but I beg 
 you nevertheless to pronounce a discourse in 
 praise of Smikros." 
 
 " How can I speak on a subject about which 
 I know nothing ? " 
 
 " Why, your boast is that consciousness of 
 ignorance inspires your life." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! What sort of fish is this that the 
 
 39 
 
gods have sent to my net in my old age ? " cried 
 the philosopher, and seized Aristocles by both 
 shoulders, peering up into his face ; then, dropping 
 his arms and turning to Parrhasios, he sighed : 
 " He quotes me, but so that I cannot recognise 
 myself in my words. But, Plato, this is your 
 idea ; you are at the eloquent age, so fire away." 
 
 " No, no, Socrates, you shall not escape me so." 
 
 " How dreadfully persistent the young are. 
 Dear lady, I appeal to you : should not he who 
 desires something said say it rather than deputy 
 the office to one who prefers silence ? ' 
 
 "Socrates, my dear mother-in-love, Aspasia, 
 used to say, " Give to those who ask, for if you 
 refuse you must fear the Nemesis of never being 
 asked when you are dying to give." 
 
 " Well, that lady was all but as wise as Diotima, 
 so I yield, yet on terms. I will praise Smikros 
 only if you first praise Parrhasios ; you came 
 hither primed for his defence, therefore you can- 
 not plead lack of preparation." The young man 
 blushed and smiled, so that the others settled 
 themselves back on the couches and looked to him 
 in expectation. 
 
 " I, as a poet, might be excused for maintaining 
 that the ear by which we listen to wisdom and 
 appreciate melody harbours the most important 
 of man's senses, and suspicious aloofness grows 
 on the deaf, till, like wild animals, they mistrust 
 even those who are kindest, becoming sullen and 
 intractable : whereas great poets have been blind. 
 Nevertheless, we must perforce give the primacy 
 to sight among all the faculties of man, though 
 the failure of it does not appear to dehumanise 
 like loss of hearing ; for those poets were born 
 
 40 
 
seeing, and having stored their memories with 
 every lovely form in the fresh and avid period of 
 youth, they were not permitted to watch the 
 slow dimming of beauty in those whom they 
 had loved or to study the many blights and 
 deformities of plant and animal, of man and 
 woman, which to childhood seem less conspicuous 
 and important than to maturity. This dis- 
 illusionment which commonly, like the shadow of 
 a cloud, travels across the face of things as years 
 run on, was shuttered from their experience, 
 while the gate of wisdom and harmony still re- 
 mained open ; therefore they could bring fruit 
 forth from fully sinewed minds deep with the 
 dewy bloom of a dawning receptiveness, as though 
 autumn's grapes and peaches could be sprinkled 
 over with the violets and primroses of spring. 
 Poetry casts its most triumphant spell when joy 
 accompanies wisdom ; as we picture Homer, 
 blind and reverend, led by the hand of a radiant 
 child in whose eyes the whole world appears a 
 garden of delight, and even the fate of its com- 
 panion like a story which begets tears and tender- 
 ness without dejecting the soul. But those born 
 blind are in as miserable a case as those born deaf 
 and dumb. Now poets can only appeal to memory 
 by means of musical sounds and thoughts, but 
 the gods have given a form to every life with a 
 power of endless self -repetition, so that this year 
 corresponds to last as strophe to strophe in an 
 ode ; whereas how feeble is the memory of 
 summer when snow loads the earth, how faint the 
 recollection of a dead man compared with the 
 presence of a live one ! What a psean is the body 
 of man ! How easy and abundant in motion, 
 
delicate yet strong, clear yet complex ! Even 
 when we see it half forgotten and garbled by slave 
 and barbarian, our eyes follow it full of regret 
 that the darkness of their minds has overruled 
 their eyes, so that they got this poem by heart 
 but imperfectly. The painter singles out some 
 uncormpted version of this divine paean, and 
 removing even the slightest hitch, repeats it like 
 a rhapsodist, with its pristine harmony. He 
 teaches us not the language of poets, but that of 
 the gods, which human life is so prone to degrade 
 and forget. He and the sculptor assure us that 
 the bulk of the divine discourse is not conveyed 
 in ambiguous oracles, or the doubtfully decipher- 
 able entrails of victims, or the behaviour of birds ; 
 but is clear, lovely and intelligible in every perfect 
 form of life, in every graceful attitude, in every 
 poise of head or glance or smile, eloquent with 
 divine gentleness or puissant with fire from a 
 guileless and unbetrayed heart. Therefore 
 painters and sculptors, who use the language of 
 the gods, stand nearer and dearer to them than 
 poets, who only use the language of men divinely ; 
 for their eloquence is like that of a god in dis- 
 guise, or travelling, who has to make use of the 
 words known to those among whom he finds him- 
 self, whereas those others speak as the gods 
 speak in their own place, directly embodying their 
 whole thought in a living form. Parrhasios, king 
 of painters, not only repeats strophes in this 
 divine language but himself composes in it, 
 showing us in one panel ' The Powers of the Air/ 
 that diviner water of the gods ; its strength and 
 power in Boreas, its majesty and lofty amplitude 
 in Hera, its refusal to be sullied and enslaved by 
 
 42 
 
the reeking soil in Iris, whose scarf blows athwart 
 the back of the storm and run how you may you 
 shall never seize the end of it, for thus the goddess 
 mocks the brown hands of Satyros. And in this 
 panel the very excellence of Light is declared ; its 
 tender and inviolable aloofness in that first kiss 
 bestowed by Selene on the sleeping shepherd, the 
 occasion and results of which you have heard so 
 eloquently dilated on in Melanipides' poem : then 
 its awful sovereignty in Apollo, along whose bow 
 arm rushes, like a wide-mouthed lion breathing 
 flame, the deadly invasion of heat to melt the 
 frail wax wings of over- weening Icarus ; while 
 along that which holds the arrow proceeds like 
 darting python that invisible madness which 
 drove the vain-glorious Phaethon from his fool- 
 hardy imitation of the god ; and, in the third 
 section, behold Light's divine tenderness and 
 rejuvenescence, where Eos weeps because she 
 cannot end the immortal life she so fondly 
 bestowed on Tithonos ! They both are at last 
 ready to plead with Selene for a second kiss like 
 that she gave to Endymion. These two splendid 
 paintings prove vain any dream of other human 
 faculty rivalling with that discoverer of light 
 which enables us to adore beauty. Parrhasios 
 is acknowledged king limner and has a right to the 
 help of his subjects, for is he not the focus of their 
 power, by which their strength is applied to the 
 conquest of new territories for their art ? He 
 then can never be in debt to any of them, for they 
 owe him their utmost." 
 
 Dione cried " Beautiful," clapping her hands 
 and making her braceleted arms tinkle festively. 
 The heavier hands of Kallias and Socrates sup- 
 
 43 
 
ported her applause, while the master rose blush- 
 ing and kissed his blushing eulogist. " He is well 
 praised," Smikros declared, " and Mr. Sophist 
 will have a stiff job to praise me as well, but I 
 do think some of this praise ought to have gone 
 to the gear that three-decker, the powdered 
 lapis, the fine feather pencils, this workroom, and 
 the slaves at call ready to fetch and carry. Who 
 knows what I couldn't paint if I had had all this 
 to hand for a year or two ? ' This naive betrayal 
 of self-confidence was greeted with a laugh, and 
 there ensued a buzz of appreciative exclamations 
 over diverse beauties of the speech, out of which 
 I presently heard Dione declare that the little Milo 
 ought now to read us the second kiss of Selene. 
 So when I perceived they all seemed to await it, 
 I began : 
 
 " A man who journeys west of north and toils 
 Over range and plain, in five or six 
 Days will view the wide sweep of Olympus 
 Rise ahead and on his right hand, topping 
 Darker summits, massive fair and dreamlike 
 With aching leagues of snow. And many think 
 Then that they see the gods' Acropolis, 
 Built with their homes and precincts of resort. 
 Great is their error, however glad their eyes. 
 Not flanked or buttressed against earthy granite 
 But on a travelling raft of rugged cloud 
 Is founded the gods' hill town, white yet warm, 
 That, reared in azure peace, recedes through 
 
 ether 
 
 Till out of sight be out of mind for men : 
 Yet on rare visits looms above this world, 
 Tremendous in approach, and dwarfs those snow- 
 fields. 
 
 44 
 
So he who steers past Rhodes one day or two 
 A little south of east, if Fortune favour, 
 Beholds enshored with spits of level cloud 
 A second liquid ocean high in air, 
 And in its tranquil midst an isle entranced 
 Famous for trees whose boughs and stems are white 
 And leafage orange and their twigs in bloom. 
 No colour, no sweet smell, but song ! pure song, 
 As though a wingless bird had burst the bud ! 
 Smooth hills clumped with such trees surround 
 
 a house 
 
 Of shining phosphor stone with pink porch-pillars ; 
 From lawns of lemon heath wide steps of pearl 
 Lead up to where across the entry lies 
 An object strange like amber mixed with snow, 
 From which a studious gaze at length evolves 
 A face and torso and four limbs reclined 
 Deep in the silver and extravagant flow 
 Of long locks and a beard to reach the feet : 
 Human it seems, wrinkled with age and joy. 
 And ever just upon the break of day 
 Forth from between those pillars Eos comes, 
 Almost too young for love, a female child ; 
 Pauses before, light-limbed, with rapturous veils, 
 She leap out into air like a strong bird. 
 Her fond glance pauses on that motionless man. 
 A ringing echo to his silent laugh 
 Shapes on her tender lips and then escapes 
 And is not ended ere the Hesperides 
 See the grey night flush with her gay advent. 
 
 That is Tithonos whom she fed with joy, 
 To whom she fondly gave immortal life 
 Forgetting that time must wither and waste his 
 strength 
 
 45 
 
Since neither he nor she could keep it young 
 Despite renewal drawn from parenthood 
 Which prolonged and rehearsed their mutual glee 
 Bathing it in their Memnon's early years. 
 For soon they had to send him here to school 
 Where demigods can win immortal fame 
 Spending on death the courage meant for life. 
 Now sweet and tender mirth can so preserve 
 The sap and springy promptness of the limbs, 
 Tithonus had endured two hundred years 
 Before his laugh failed hers, and by that time 
 Gladness had worked his earthy substance clear 
 As amber, honey or chalcedony. 
 Then laughter grew a palsy and gave pain : 
 Too weak for more, he daily prayed for peace, 
 A boon she could not grant, poor child, in tears 
 A second time ; for she the first time wept 
 On finding Memnon stretched along the sand 
 Disfigured with his wounds ; then that young 
 
 mother 
 
 Lifted her son, whose mortal years appeared 
 More than her own immortal carried him 
 With tears that filled her heavy footprints up, 
 So fast they fell, so slowly could she move 
 Burdened with that grown man's weight stiff in 
 
 death. 
 
 She crossed a shrubless plain from rim to rim 
 Dinted its arid miles and left those pools, 
 The only things alive under the night, 
 To wink with light and tremble at the wind. 
 Zeus saw them and revived her son a god, 
 Then, comfort-winged, she might regain her isle 
 To weep next that his father could not die 
 Who first had wept because her son was dead. 
 But there are wiser elder goddesses. 
 
 46 
 
Waning Selene visits there each month 
 
 And reins her silver dragons at that porch. 
 
 She heard his prayer and knew her lips could 
 
 grant 
 
 For was not young Endymion still a stone ? 
 A second time she kissed a man, intent 
 To crystal all his flesh, a second time 
 Rejoiced that she had conquered ages since 
 Those common instincts native to her form. 
 
 Ethereal gales breathe o'er that upper sea 
 And fan those island hills and tune their holts 
 Yet weather not as wintry storms have worn 
 The stone Endymion, weather not like that 
 Those precious substances, that alabaster 
 Tithonus lying there on day's threshold 
 Where Eos sings each morn, 
 Remembering the mirth she had with him : 
 As children ponder how their parents loved 
 With innocent wondering minds that picture 
 
 always 
 
 Glad changeless hearts and everlasting youth, 
 So fall to warbling tunes 
 Like those which rouse that isle 
 When her voice leads the chorus of its trees, 
 Music that sea-farers, 
 Having touched at Rhodes 
 And not yet sighted 
 Cyprus under the dawn, 
 Hear faint and dying 
 Fall from an open sea 
 That breaks in waves of light against the clouds." 
 
 A moment's silence; and then Socrates' staff, 
 on which he had been resting, though seated, fell 
 with a loud noise, jolting his head down almost on 
 
 47 
 
to his knees ; and as he recovered it with a just 
 audible yawn, he exclaimed, "Was I asleep? " 
 
 " Scandalous ! " cried Dione. "It is unfor- 
 givable if you were." But Smikros laughed till 
 the tears ran out of his eyes, so that no one 
 was able to resist the contagion. When con- 
 versation could be resumed the philosopher ex- 
 plained, ' The poem was so beautiful that it 
 seemed to me impossible that I was awake." 
 
 " No more," cried Parrhasios, " your heresy 
 is well known." 
 
 " Beautiful things really do make me feel as 
 though I were dreaming," Aristocles said. ' True 
 in a sense, but that trance is intensely alert," the 
 master replied ; " any inadvertence like dropping 
 a staff would shatter it." Socrates chuckled ; 
 but Dione changed the subject by declaring that 
 she saw the footprints of the dawn flashing like 
 silver mirrors dropped all across a flat, dim land ; 
 ' they are far brighter than a sky in which almost 
 all the stars are dead." ' Yes," the young man 
 cried ecstatically, " Melanipides was never more 
 magically inspired than when he filled them with 
 her tears. That merry goddess ' almost too young 
 for love '- -' almost ' and then those deep foot- 
 prints filled with tears." 
 
 But Smikros interjected : " Won't Mr. Phil- 
 osopher praise me ? I'm all an itch to know 
 what he'll be after saying." 
 
 Finding attention focussed on him, the sage 
 began. ' It has never been my luck to catch 
 a winged horse. How then should I match the 
 eloquence of my Plato ? Smikros will suffer in 
 more ways than one from his praise being entrusted 
 to me. A blind man, who has no fair child to lead 
 
him, goes tapping with a stick to make sure where 
 next to place his foot, giving warning the while 
 in a voice addressed to no one in particular, lest 
 some swiftly moving person, not noticing that his 
 eyes are useless, should blunder into him. Such 
 is the gait of my eloquence. Smikros, would you 
 not rather have lost the use of your eyes than of 
 your hands ? ' " No." " Have you thought 
 it out ? " " What do you mean ? " " What 
 blind men have you known?' "There's the 
 polisher." "What does he polish?' "The 
 vases as soon as the varnish is dry. He finishes 
 them, poising them on his finger-tips, whistling like 
 a blackbird. His touch is so clever he even dis- 
 covers which are the best painted as well as the 
 most shapely." " A happy man ? ' "As jolly 
 as a cricket." " I myself knew a blind basket- 
 maker who was more cheery under the rule of 
 the Two Hundred than anyone else in Athens. 
 Defeat, catastrophe, no news seemed to upset 
 him ; and when the Lacedemonians took Decelea 
 he still joked over weaving and selling wicker- 
 work. So eyes may not be worth all that Plato 
 pretends. Which would you rather stare at the 
 world or change it ? " " Change it." " How 
 would you do that ? " " Make Alcibiades king." 
 " Set about it then." " Dunno where to begin," 
 Smikros laughed. "Is it not better to do what 
 you can do well than to bungle ? ' ' Yes." 
 " What are you best at ? ' " Drawing on craters 
 and jugs." " Before your accident ; but unless 
 the leech heals your hands, that's ended." At 
 this Smikros became sullen and made no answer, 
 and Dione exclaimed : " It is too cruel to remind 
 him so." 
 
 49 
 
" Listen to me, Smikros," said Socrates, " for 
 I believe you know how to do something far 
 more wonderful than painting vases something 
 that for years I've bungled at." " What's that ? " 
 " How did Pericles change Athens ? " " How ? ' 
 " He made it more beautiful and stronger than 
 it had ever been before." " Yes." " But not 
 strong enough, as our misfortunes have proved." 
 " Yes." " In order to raise so many fine build- 
 ings he had to increase the skilled hands of Athens 
 an hundredfold. That was gain, for ' cunning 
 hand means wary head ' ; but unfortunately he 
 seemed to do this by means of speeches, and his 
 hearers never noticed that they had but one 
 oration from Pericles for every thousand they 
 heard from others. They only remembered his 
 because he changed their minds to good purpose, 
 but that was not how he changed Athens ; that 
 was only how he persuaded them to let him make 
 her strong and beautiful. How did he do it then ? 
 He had a good eye for the invisible part of men 
 and he trained it. Pheidias was his friend, to 
 whom he gave control over all the other architects 
 and artificers, and Pheidias was the best artist. 
 But he could not pass this gift on to Alcibiades, 
 who has used his eloquence and personal magic 
 not to build or occupy men's hands but only to 
 stir up quarrels Athenians against Sicilians, 
 Lacedaemonians against us and then against the 
 Persians, and the Persians against them ; and 
 the changes he has yet effected are a very poor 
 set-off to those Pericles brought about. Would 
 you not rather change the world as Pericles did 
 than as Alcibiades is now doing ? ' "I should 
 have a better chance of success ! " "jPericles 
 
 50 
 
made even me different from the other sophists, 
 for I was prenticed to a sculptor, and Pheidias 
 bade us watch the youths and boys at their 
 gymnastics so as to impart more life to our 
 figures, and as I watched young Alcibiades and 
 other splendid lads, I thought ' Here are living 
 statues that need finishing ' and then I wanted 
 to do what you did when you first came here. 
 I wanted to inspire the daimons who were at 
 work on them, to guide their divine hands as you 
 did those of Parrhasios ; but whereas you suc- 
 ceeded in darting your idea into his mind, I 
 failed, and neither Alcibiades nor his daimon seem 
 ever to have realised the difference between a 
 shepherd and his dog. And here is Aristocles," 
 turning affectionately, admiringly, to the young 
 man seated beside him, " I call him Plato, and 
 he tempts me even more than Alcibiades to inter- 
 pose between the invisible master and his handi- 
 work. He ought to be something more splendid 
 than a poet, should he not ? I cannot think 
 those invisible sculptors of men are so wise as 
 they are powerful, or how are we to account for 
 so many tragedies ? Their wits can scarcely 
 be as sharp as their chisels : and earnestly as I 
 long to compass Plato's perfection, so earnestly 
 do I entreat you to teach me this art of darting 
 the notion I have of his improvement into the 
 mind of that invisible master who is chipping 
 at him ; for I must tell you that I am convinced 
 that this art of yours is the only art that can 
 restore Athens to the glory Pericles gave it, and 
 make it stronger and more beautiful yet. Had 
 Pericles been able not only to build the Parthenon 
 but also to carve the character of Alcibiades and 
 
other youths, instead of pulling so much of his 
 work to pieces they would have built more with 
 stone, and made less frequent and more successful 
 wars. Now do help me. I want Plato to feel 
 and act on this idea. You must discover what 
 truth and beauty really are before you can write 
 a beautiful poem." 
 
 Smikros had followed keenly all the philosopher 
 said, and now bent his head and knit his brows 
 while we waited for his answer. Just at this 
 moment a level shaft of sunlight from the north- 
 west slanted in through the window and threw 
 the shadow of my profile high up on the wall 
 opposite the panels. Those on the couches turned 
 towards the light, though both Smikros and 
 myself remained absorbed over the problem 
 Socrates had broached. It seems that my dear 
 master now rose, and, with a gesture, imploring 
 silence, crossed the room a-tiptoe, and rapidly 
 noted in chalk on the wall beneath the outline of 
 my silhouette as it was cast by the sunlight above. 
 This sketch he has since used for a shade who 
 gazes out from the rocks whence Hermes is leading 
 Persephone, in his '" Earth Goddesses." Only 
 when the chalk broke in his hand and fell was 
 I aroused to what was happening ; and immedi- 
 ately we were all startled by Smikros, who 
 shouted : ' What's the use of talking ! Mr. 
 Sophist, I might have rated Parrhasios for ever 
 and he never seen what I was driving at, but 
 I showed him with my hand. Show your young 
 friend how to jump over his shadow backward 
 or what you will, and he'll do it better than you 
 could yourself, to judge from his looks." ' Very 
 true, if I wanted to guide his hands or his feet ; 
 
 52 
 
but it is the intangible part of him I want to 
 shape." " Tell him what you want. If he under- 
 stands he thinks the same, but I guess you have 
 not thought right, that's why he don't take to it. 
 Parrhasios would not have swallowed my hook 
 if I had not baited it just so." " But my thought 
 is sound." " No use, you must be." " Smikros, 
 you open my eyes. How could I, a poor carver, 
 be what the princely Alcibiades ought to have 
 been ? How can an old man be and do what 
 young Plato should ? Now I understand Melani- 
 pides. Selene wanted to change Endymion's 
 mind, but, being divine, knew she could not touch 
 the intangible, and rather than leave ignorance 
 and crude passion to degrade his body she changed 
 that in all its beauty to a stone. But Eos was too 
 young, she thought to immortalize dancing limbs 
 and laughing lips ; but they wasted, and her lover 
 grew peevish, and she found she had perpetuated 
 misery, not rapture. Parrhasios, too, does well 
 to place Apollo between them with the torrid 
 wrath of the lion on one arm and the rapid venom 
 of the serpent on the other, defending the invisible 
 from the sons of women. I resemble Phaethon 
 and Icarus and Eos by my presumption, and it 
 is you and Parrhasios and Melanipides who are 
 wise ! ' and Socrates seemed as much cast down 
 as though his daimon had been driven from him. 
 But Smikros was not comfortable and soon spoke. 
 " I'm not sure, Mr. Sophist, if my mind's a match 
 for your tongue, but this I will say. You cry 
 thanks for my opening your eyes and then speak 
 of failure and despair ; but I, since my hands 
 were burnt, was in despair and my eyes were shut 
 to every hope. But when I saw that inscription 
 
 53 
 
a weight rolled off my mind. I felt I had done 
 something fine and that perhaps my hands would 
 heal. Are those eyes open that see despair or 
 those that see success and hope ? That's what 
 I ask ; for I take it when a man's done what 
 he meant to, his eyes open, and when he fails, they 
 shut." 
 
 Socrates clapped his hands and turned to the 
 others. " So the thought with which we started 
 this afternoon receives confirmation from a fresh 
 mind and grows clearer. Performance precedes 
 vision. Do and then think, for insight is born 
 of practical success; though this cart is always 
 put before this horse, and men hold themselves 
 wise to think before they leap. Yet the child 
 who thinks about it never leaps at all until he can 
 forget himself again. The newly born wave their 
 hands vaguely and watch their movements for 
 some time before they learn to direct them. Skill 
 is thought proved right by success, but you must 
 blunder before you can win, and carve stone 
 before you shape men. Ha, ha ! " and he rubbed 
 his hands. " Fine success in shaping matter lifts 
 the lids of doubt and despair off our invisible 
 eyes, so that they see the road ahead and the 
 fair city to which it leads, and need no longer tap 
 like a blind man with a stick. And thus I have 
 praised Smikros by proving that his mind is 
 fertile because his hands had learnt fine skill, 
 and in so doing I set him above Alcibiades, 
 because with him words shoot ahead and flustered 
 action fails to catch them up, whereas with Pericles 
 silence and action preceded and speech drew others 
 after them ; and above Plato because he presents 
 very wordy tragedies before he has bruised his 
 
fingers and broken his heart with mallet and 
 chisel ; and above Kallias because he hurries 
 about driven by the desire of riches, instead of 
 occupying his hands in order to school his desires, 
 and though his success cheers him it does not 
 procure him vision and insight because it is due 
 to the activity of his feet and tongue instead of 
 to the skill of his hands. Often my own heart 
 sinks and despairs because my hand has thrown 
 down the chisel ; but then again I begin to hope 
 that because I make these discoveries I am 
 training a new hand, the invisible hand that will 
 one day shape men's souls as finely as Pheidias 
 shaped ivory and bronze. Now you yourselves 
 have throned him there above Parrhasios. So 
 he is our king, for I am only a beginner in this 
 art of darting new impulses into the soul and 
 have never yet won such success as his with 
 Parrhasios." 
 
 All hands were clapped and there was laughter 
 over the roguish innuendoes of Socrates. 
 
 " Sweet and tart blended," said Smikros, 
 " that's what I call Mr. Sophist's laudation. First 
 I think ' Ha ! I'm like Pericles ' and then, ' No, 
 he's got a prong in me ' ; and then I scold myself, 
 ' You're touchy, the old tup means well.' Only 
 one thing I'm sure of he's too clever ! " Kallias 
 laughed : " You may take my word for it, 
 Smikros, in the long run you'll remember the 
 sting of his tongue and forget the kiss of his lips." 
 
 " No, no," interposed Aristocles. " And I'm 
 of your mind too, my young lord, for I've noticed 
 Sun shines on long ago is a true saying, and this 
 too, Memory stores more summers than winters," 
 the beaming Smikros concluded. 
 
 55 
 
Now the slaves who had been waiting for a 
 pause began to fold back the heavy carpets. 
 The awning was already furled, for the sun had 
 left the court, and in the portico were collected 
 quails and pheasants from yards, corridors and 
 roofs ; for at this hour they come to be fed. 
 Among them stepped a peacock ; and all began 
 to venture into the room, with suspicious reserve, 
 sinking quick-eyed heads into a ruff of neck and 
 shoulder only to jet them forth again with in- 
 quisitive hardihood ; or with foot lifted high 
 they deliberate, to retrieve the effect of some too 
 rapid advance. Parrhasios took a basket from 
 a slave and cast a handful of corn on the flags, 
 then laughed with glee at their eagerness and 
 address in seizing the coveted grains from one 
 another ; he called to them as to children, 
 encouraging the backward, reproving and defeat- 
 ing the greedy. Meanwhile down from the 
 rafters had fluttered doves and pigeons, settling 
 on the basket, arms, and shoulders of the master, 
 and clouding up whenever he swung his hand. 
 Smikros shouted aloud and Socrates was as 
 pleased, especially when Dione put into his hand 
 some kernels of which they are particularly fond, 
 and three or four pigeons made a battle of frus- 
 trated wings, as each prevented the others from 
 steadying or gaining a foothold from which to 
 reach the prize. 
 
 There were pheasants that Persian fanciers 
 obtain from those who trade farther east, with 
 hoods of yellow or white, daintily lined with 
 black ; others had burning copper bosoms laced 
 over with bold curves of dark metallic blue, the 
 whole effect enlivened with spots of white about 
 
 56 
 
as big as a pea. The splendour of such satraps 
 was set off by the tender-hued doves and homely 
 quails. The sleek-fitting plumage of so many 
 comely creatures, the hurried walk of pigeons 
 nodding their heads with uninterrupted self- 
 approval, the shy running of the quails, sidelong 
 glances of bead-like eyes and rapid winking of 
 shutter-like lids, attitude and gestures, barbaric, 
 savage, daemonic, or of an equally startling reserve 
 and civility, gave occasion for innumerable ex- 
 clamations of delight, and calls to others to 
 remark what had pleased. 
 
 ' The palette of Apollo ! " cried Parrhasios, 
 comprising the group on the floor. " Each colour 
 has its proper form and life." 
 
 ' Thou Alcibiades of birds ! " Aristocles apos- 
 trophised the peacock, " is thine the soul of a 
 shepherd or of a dog ? ' 
 
 " How great a dignity yet how small a brain- 
 pan," mocked Kallias ; and Dione, as her arms 
 tinkled in defending her from the pigeons who 
 coveted every morsel she designed for the timid 
 quails, sighed. ' These birds are my despair. 
 Who, after studying them, can hope to contrive 
 an appropriate costume ? ' 
 
 Suddenly Aristocles noticed that Smikros was 
 craning to see, as, all the company having risen, 
 they in a great measure cut off his view. Immedi- 
 ately he was seized throne and all, and planted, 
 like Xerxes in the midst of the Persian camp, 
 among the birds, who scattered in a circle as 
 though to show deference for his gilded state. 
 
 " How self-contained they are ! " cried the 
 philosopher. ' Their actions never belie their 
 forms ; it is impossible to expect from them more 
 
virtue than they exhibit, whereas man's soul 
 always finds action and thought inadequate. 
 Yesterday I met a child in a toy cart hitched on 
 behind a dray ; even thus the soul progresses, 
 behind action and eloquence, yet in their despite." 
 
 ' That is true, Socrates, of our waking hours ; 
 but in sleep we may see the gods as they see us, 
 unhindered by the always in some measure ill- 
 adjusted agency of matter/' the master said, 
 handing his empty basket back to a slave. " The 
 recollection of how Hera appeared to me in a 
 vision of the night dissatisfies me with her figure 
 more than with the others, though it has received 
 most praise. How ran those lines, my dear, 
 which you repeated to me a month since, ' The 
 universe is lame, compared with . . .' how did 
 it go ? ' Then Aristocles began reciting : 
 
 ' Beauty ! and oh 'twas I who saw 
 It pure ! So perfect that the frame 
 Of all the universe seemed lame 
 Compared with what no line could draw 
 Nor mind therefrom infer a law ! 
 Art, yet not in failing learned ! 
 A sunray never stopped or turned ! 
 Life's fair march made without a halt ; 
 Her curious form without a fault ; 
 Her story written without blot ! 
 All beauty, and all in one spot.' ' 
 
 " That's how I felt," sighed Parrhasios. " Whose 
 are the lines ? ' asked Dione. " They were 
 attributed to Simonides. I read them two years 
 ago in a scroll belonging to Agathon who has since 
 mislaid it, and I cannot answer for all the words 
 as I pieced them with makeshifts when I found 
 memory at fault," Aristocles explained. 
 
 58 
 
" Even poets must allow that the real god is 
 invisible," the philosopher pursued ; " though 
 he take this form or that, bird or bull, dream or 
 unhewn stone, his divinity only counterfeits 
 these objects in order to address the sense of the 
 beholder." 
 
 " But every god has a proper form which is 
 human," Parrhasios ruled. 
 
 " Only more perfect than that of any man," 
 added the poet. 
 
 ' The statues of Apollo do not strike me as 
 more perfect than your body," retorted the 
 philosopher. The young man flushed and laughed, 
 but Parrhasios continued: "The sculptors desired 
 to make them so, but fell short of their aim." 
 
 ' Yet how easily the gods might have inspired 
 them to succeed," quizzed the philosopher ; 
 " surely they must desire to be known in their 
 true forms ? ' he added, but the master pur- 
 sued : ' Though I am familiar with many canons 
 of proportion I had not presence of mind enough, 
 so dazed by admiration as I then was, to note 
 exactly every point wherein Hera surpassed 
 them." And Aristocles chimed in, " Little by 
 little the masters approach the ideal, led on by 
 vision and dream. Pheidias came nearer than 
 Miron, Polycleitos in some ways nearer still." 
 But Socrates took him up. ' The gods then are 
 invisible even though they may be preparing 
 men to see them as they are. I shall be delighted 
 to see justice evident in the mien of Zeus and 
 pure intelligence in that of Pallas, for neither in 
 the Parthenon nor at Olympus was I satisfied, 
 therefore concluded that the true God must be 
 invisible like a character divined through action, 
 
 59 
 
not palpable like a body. When I listen to my 
 daimon I find it necessary to close my eyes even 
 in the presence of the most beautiful companion, 
 lest my spirit should be confused by sensuous 
 impressions." 
 
 " But Parrhasios' eyes were fast in sleep," 
 cried Aristocles ; "he saw in vision as you hear 
 in trance." ' Then I understand you to believe 
 that Parrhasios saw Hera as she is, even as I 
 see you as you are ? ' ' Who knows what to 
 believe about the gods ? ' retorted the young 
 man. " I only say why should Parrhasios be 
 deceived by his senses rather than you by yours ? " 
 ' When my daimon speaks, does he shape air 
 with an invisible mouth ? Or does his proximity 
 excite memories of articulate sound vivid enough 
 to abuse my ears ? " the philosopher parried : 
 and, seeing his questioner nonplussed, proceeded, 
 ' When I gaze at Dione or yourself I admire, only 
 after a time to doubt whether beauty would not 
 move me better if I held your hand with closed 
 eyes, or even, not touching or seeing you, were 
 nevertheless completely convinced of your being. 
 Is not Dione hung like a Tyrian curtain in front 
 of some daimon ? We look at her as a child eyes 
 a cover in which it knows that a new toy is 
 wrapped. No gay needlework on that cloth 
 fastens its gaze ; nay, the knowledge that a gift 
 is inside prevents its really admiring those pat- 
 terns, just as Parrhasios found he could not study 
 the visionary Hera, though he had trained his 
 mind to that end. Invisible, she divided his 
 attention with a cheating dream, and so his recol- 
 lection of its traits proved delusive. Should 
 her majesty now stand behind that panel I say 
 
 60 
 
behind as we say above for Olympus or within 
 for the soul but were she now near us we might 
 all see the figure he has painted as beautiful as 
 he thought his dream ; yet it would not be 
 changed but stimulated by her approach, our 
 minds would drape her faulty portrait in luminous 
 and moving grace. May not those whom the gods 
 frequent see everything more beautiful than it 
 really is ? And though their eyes be cheated yet 
 are they blessedly near a god. Has it ever hap- 
 pened that one day a poem which has often 
 ravished fails to stir your soul ? I see you have 
 had such disappointments. That day you were 
 alone when you read ; always before an invisible 
 friend's head had bent over the scroll side by side 
 with your own. These are random guesses, but 
 reason tells us the senses perceive naught but the 
 sensuous ; thought is only cognizant of thought, 
 then why is not character as exclusively aware 
 of character ? Here is Smikros travestied in 
 shimmering tinsel ; but that touselly head of 
 his, those hungry black eyes, and all that blood- 
 less face peaked with suffering may at times be 
 the far more cunning disguise of some rare proud 
 daimon, no mere Satrap but the very Pericles of 
 that world where affections and intentions pass 
 directly, and are independent of our clumsy 
 signalling codes of speech and gesture. The 
 invisible, intangible, immaterial, should be appre- 
 hended and measured in ways we as yet have no 
 dream of : though this sense for something divine 
 in picture, poem, or person, the sudden per- 
 missions and inhibitions to which I am subject, 
 may constitute an embryonic discovery of that 
 communion. Could we be thus dissatisfied with 
 
 61 
 
the relation of sound to sense and form to soul, 
 if no better fusion were possible ? Is not our 
 sentiment of character, however tenuous and 
 illusive, related to the direct converse between 
 god's mind and god's mind, as an infant's well- 
 nigh empty imitation of the sounds of talk is to 
 articulate speech ? The beauty we see and the 
 wisdom we hear may be neither copy nor transla- 
 tion of the divine, but a distinct thing, sometimes 
 governed by its flow, like weeds in a stream or 
 foliage in the breeze." 
 
 ' Then, Socrates," Aristocles demurred, " the 
 search for truth is hopeless, for immediate know- 
 ledge is only of unreality, only of this dummy 
 world of matter ; and poets are wiser than 
 philosophers, since they let rhythms control their 
 thoughts. This character, of which we have 
 so embryonic a sentiment, must surely be akin 
 to rhythm rather than to thought or fact ? ' 
 
 " Ha, ha, my Plato will make me say what he 
 means, whatever I really say, and this exemplifies 
 what I mean by character ; for I imagine it to be 
 an order in the appreciation of virtue, by which 
 whenever a soul becomes conscious of worth, that 
 value is immediately discerned as congruent with 
 the whole of that soul, even as tributary streams 
 become part of a river. And I accuse poets and 
 artists of focussing attention on the leaves or the 
 weed, whereas it is the flow which bends them 
 that is divine ; their movement is only an occa- 
 sional index to a greater, purer, freer life." 
 
 " A little while ago the soul took advantage of 
 the lumbering word and action to hitch its little 
 cart on behind, as a child may put its toy in tow 
 of a wagon," laughed Aristocles. 
 
 62 
 
' What a memory he has for words and images, 
 and how the sense eludes him ! " the philosopher 
 commented, and then changing banter to earnest : 
 " My dear, was I not then saying the soul gets 
 little help from thought and action and that little 
 in their despite ? Even as the leaves of a tree, 
 though they call attention to the wind, do not 
 forward but hinder its movement ; the service 
 they render is merely to make its passage known 
 to our dim eyes. The tree remains rooted by 
 nature, whereas the wind's is to pass ; and had 
 I used the image of the boy in the toy cart at this 
 stage in my argument, I should have pressed it 
 home by relating how I asked where he was going 
 and he told me ' the observation post is behind, I 
 have passed the wild weather-tortured fig and see the 
 hot and cold springs just ahead ! ' for his mind ran 
 as swiftly as Achilles overtaking Hector, yet the 
 wagon was all the time crawling back from Piraeus 
 with the lading of a ship. He got a hint of move- 
 ment from it, but neither the quality nor the pace, 
 nor the desired direction, so left-handed is the aid 
 of matter to the soul. Whether reality does not 
 hold some such relation to the tangible world, is 
 the enquiry to which I hope you will devote time 
 and powers that I believe will be comparatively 
 wasted writing poems and dramas." 
 
 " O, but I love to sit in my cart," smiled 
 Aristocles, rhythmically easing his arms above 
 his head while poising his weight a-tiptoe, first 
 to one side then to the other. Dione touched 
 Parrhasios to call his attention. Socrates com- 
 prehended the scene with a smile. " Form and 
 movement are not beauty," he chuckled, " for 
 matter intrudes, and these physical interruptions 
 
 63 
 
tax the patience of the soul ! " Aristocles blushed, 
 and taking refuge in a boyish irresponsibility, 
 cried, " My cart, my cart is a ship : Bacchus and 
 Ariadne are aboard ! But a jolt converts it to a 
 chest and I become Danae nursing her babe, and, 
 however fancy transform it, my joy sings, so long 
 as I need not call it a cart," and a pirouette ex- 
 pressed his escape from logic ; while Kallias cried : 
 "Bravo!" Socrates yielded readily to the relief 
 that with a stir and smiles the whole company 
 drew from this break of gaiety, and cried cheerily : 
 " I feel as young as before my father put a chisel 
 in my hand, and perhaps I ought first to teach 
 you to chip stone before thrusting invisible tools 
 on you." But here Smikros cut him short with 
 a sudden burst of weeping. Dione crooned 
 soothingly : " Alas ! What ails you ? Speak, 
 for we are kind, we are your friends." 
 
 " Only one part of me was finely made my 
 hands," he wailed, " and he is perfect, top to toe, 
 and yet, as Mr. Sophist says, my invisible part 
 might outrival his. To think that when I thrust 
 my hands into the furnace I half hoped to . . ." 
 his voice died away in a wail, then broke out 
 bitterly again, " Every man is his own worst 
 enemy, they say, and I've been mine." 
 
 " But why did you wish to burn your hands ? ' 
 Socrates asked. 
 
 " O, anything to make Master feel ; to have 
 him curse himself for doing what he'd done ! " 
 
 " Bah ! " Kallias exclaimed, " the victim hopes 
 for sympathy from the bully ! Where will fools 
 not look for fellow feeling ? ' 
 
 " Say, rather ' We all try to use other minds 
 as looking-glasses ? ' 
 
 64 
 
' How puzzling you are, philosopher," sighed 
 Dione. " Dear lady, I do not agree with Kallias 
 that only fools seek a reflection of their own 
 emotion on other faces, even on those of their 
 enemies." Amusedly the poet now asked whether 
 the most harmonious souls hanker after the image 
 of their own in other minds, even as those whose 
 faces are fairest grow over-fond of their mirrors ! 
 ' Perhaps," the old man mused. 
 
 ' But that is obviously not true," cried Dione, 
 " for the best minds are the most indepen- 
 dent." 
 
 ' Does any true thought seek corroboration ? ' 
 queried Aristocles. Socrates reflected and pre- 
 sently replied : ' We both seek corroboration 
 and suspect it ; for we know that men's minds 
 have a power to discover truth, but also know 
 that they are hoodwinked and biassed. Our 
 first impulse is to free ourselves from delusion by 
 placing our judgment beside one patently un- 
 trammelled by the passion that sways us ; but 
 once persuaded that our conclusions were well 
 derived and natural, we are ready to defy those 
 of minds moved by prejudices that we do not 
 share ; and then it is that we risk to become over- 
 enamoured of the beauty, freedom and justice of 
 our own findings." 
 
 ' Poor Smikros could have no doubt that he 
 had been wronged," demurred Aristocles. " And," 
 Socrates retorted, " for that very reason would 
 demand that even those least likely to should 
 acknowledge the hugeness of the injustice at once. 
 Passion is violent and will be satisfied at no matter 
 what cost ; besides, it was his revenge to force 
 regret from his master's lips." Dione murmured, 
 
 e 65 
 
" Perhaps our feelings press to be shared in pro- 
 portion to their strength ? ' 
 
 " Can deep promptings only become lucid 
 when they are mutual ? ' the young man re- 
 phrased it. And she resumed : " As a girl I 
 learnt a poem about Aidoneus and Persephone 
 in which the god first desired her because she was 
 strange, but afterwards still more because he 
 found himself in her eyes. 
 
 ' He seized her by that scarlet frock ; 
 This foreign wonder had blue eyes ! 
 Dropped like a scarf athwart a rock 
 Her image on his gaunt heart lies, 
 While reverence blows like humid wind 
 Across his thirsty desert mind. 
 
 ' Lo ! then, he found within her eyes 
 The little child he once had been : 
 Asleep, not dead, in memory lies 
 Our infancy, and will wash clean 
 Like linen all its trembling glee 
 And fresh delight in flower and tree ! ' 
 and the poem went on to describe how Perse- 
 phone's dread and sense of violation were in their 
 turn transformed, 
 
 ' When she looked up and saw a cry 
 For more than pardon in his eye/ 
 
 Aspasia smiled at the naivety of these lines, but 
 would dwell on the thought ; so I remember them 
 though the rest has vanished. She taught that 
 we might never lose the child's integrity of 
 enjoyment if we could only live without haste 
 and confusion, dealing with things one at a time." 
 Aristocles exclaimed : " Perhaps no joy would 
 
 66 
 
ever stale if memory could restore the circum- 
 stances of its first occurrence perfectly ! ' but 
 Dione continued, " She blamed all tangled and 
 hasty living, and forbade us as girls destined to 
 be the companions of highly educated men ever 
 to bustle or behave as though life held a whip 
 over us. ' Being is worth little in a fly,' she 
 would insist ; but when it creates heroical forti- 
 tude, beauty in movement and disposition, and 
 profoundly harmonious attachments ..." and 
 here Dione looked towards Parrhasios till he con- 
 tinued for her, " and creates, I suppose, also the 
 masterpieces of sculpture, painting, poetry and 
 music." " Yes," she laughed, " approach to all 
 such things for her gave living its value. Their 
 creation and preservation might even be worth 
 the loss of life, was what I had meant to say. To 
 lose them for mere maintenance she stigmatised 
 as a base preference of means to ends." Socrates 
 nodded and deduced, " Then we not only look to 
 others for confirmation of the best truth about 
 ourselves, but may expect to find in them as well 
 vestiges of perfection " ; and he turned to 
 Kallias : "In that case not hopelessly does the 
 victim argue with the tyrant's heart of stone. 
 Nay, history shows us conquerors beseeching the 
 conquered for approval. May not the wretched 
 Andokides at this moment pine for Smikros' 
 condolence and forgiveness ? ' Parrhasios here 
 draped the thought to his fancy. ' Though we 
 deal with men, we look past them at the gods ; 
 which gives us courage to continue in spite of 
 many disappointments " ; and his young friend 
 added : " Men who lived without confusion and 
 remembered completely would be gods." Whereon 
 
the philosopher resumed : " Then the kindly are 
 not absurd when they believe that there is some- 
 thing quick behind the stony mask and Smikros 
 in his resentment obeyed a just impulse though 
 his action was violent and clumsy. The tendency 
 of cunning men to impute deep designs to simple 
 souls may be a mere distortion of this power of 
 gazing over man's head at the gods." 
 
 " And Homer " cried Aristocles, " when he 
 shows Pallas inspiring the thoughts and actions 
 of Odysseus only interprets this deep instinct ; 
 and thus also Apollo's perfect body renders the 
 aspiration of health visible to adoring piety." 
 Once more Socrates caught up the thread : 
 " What if a mind peopled with divinities should 
 be a condition of sanity ? Hence we feel it pious 
 to reverence the gods, and sagacious to suppose 
 them more complex, more manlike than the excel- 
 lences that they embody. A naked notion or 
 a mere name cannot address the mind with smiles 
 as the young Eos does : her divinity is the image 
 of an awe gleefully poised on the change from 
 night to day. When the impulses within us behave 
 like a mob, or like satyrs, that is because they 
 reflect our tangled and confused behaviour ; 
 fortunately at other times they are sisters, like 
 the Muses, moving in choir and each in turn 
 taking and yielding the lead. And (looking round 
 with a smile) since you are all so docile to them, 
 it is fitting that I, who may seem to have slighted 
 them, invoke their aid. 
 
 O, delicate daughters of Memory, with your cool 
 hands, pity and soothe the furrowed brow of an old 
 man. Convey back into my turbid thoughts the 
 vigour and passion of that hymn which Diotima of 
 
 68 
 
Mantinea was wont to croon whenever silence grew 
 long between some companion and herself . . . 
 a thing which often happened," he went on, 
 adapting his address to present company once 
 more, " for every man felt bound to give her his 
 best. I had heard it many times before I asked 
 what the words were. She replied : ' Socrates, 
 have you ever gone hot at a mere thought ? ' 
 I nodded. ' Some purpose too lofty or too base 
 for the gamut of your character, the mere notion 
 of which passed like a flame through the tissues 
 of your body ? ' I accepted her description. 
 ' And that momentary heat left you surprised at 
 your distinctness ; as though you were habitually 
 of a piece with human intentions, conceiving all 
 readily, rejecting these, adopting those with 
 unconcern, whereas this one cut you away from 
 the past and lifted you out of your accustomed 
 place, to separate you in the universe ? ' I nodded 
 once more. * Then,' said she, ' you have already 
 experienced the favour of the perfectly candid 
 goddess. Those verses are what the Orphic 
 priests call a '' perfume," because they are 
 intended for recitation while herbs and spices 
 burn in the rite. They should accompany an 
 incense of invocation, and are rarely used nowa- 
 days since men deprecate the approach and would 
 avert the advance of that goddess ; so few have 
 knowledge of her gracious benefits, whereas all 
 dread her terrible insight. 
 Invisible Nemesis, peer and 
 Sister of Aphrodite, 
 Fire and invade 
 This riotous heart, and fusing 
 All base reluctance, free from 
 
Dross mine intent. 
 
 Then shape and use me fear-rid, 
 
 Malleable and cleansed from malice. 
 
 Quiver and throb 
 
 Through me to-day, and not after 
 
 Mad deed and stubborn blunder 
 
 Shall prompt thee consume 
 
 Along with botch and taint one 
 
 Who, self-aware, reveres now 
 
 Thy bodiless beauty/ ' 
 
 Aristocles sighed, " But what a strange notion ! 
 Is this the dreaded Nemesis ? " and the old man 
 replied : " Your wonder is the twin of my own, 
 to allay which that wise woman asserted that 
 in the days of Uranos, who, we are told, flourished 
 as much prior to Chronos as he to Zeus, no form 
 was yet distinct, but vapour and dust were dis- 
 tracted by storms and winds that as suddenly 
 resumed their violence as they forgot it. Yet 
 the primal god became amorous ; this, we know 
 from his successors, is as commonly the case with 
 daimons as with men. Now his watery disposition 
 hesitated between two goddesses. The one 
 promised him definite limbs and precise sensa- 
 tion. She would divide pleasure from pain, 
 beauty from hideousness, light from darkness, 
 fact from thought, love from hate. She appeared 
 to him as this world appears to us on an early 
 summer morning, and as a young woman in per- 
 fect health appears to a young man. But the 
 other said : ' Yes, she is clear and real and 
 beautiful, but change she must ; age must alter- 
 nate with her youth, disease with her health, 
 winter with her summer ' ; and as the words 
 reached him he saw a palsied crone lashed by a 
 
 70 
 
blizzard stumbling through snow under dreary 
 clouds. But that pure voice ran on : ' My beauty 
 is unalterable and creates a permanent ecstasy ; 
 and hers is but a part of its perfection present as 
 a supremely vivid memory, but intangible, a 
 vision not a scene, a portrait not a person. You 
 shall forget this confusion and insufferable hesi- 
 tancy that afflicts you, and, avoiding her treacher- 
 ous solidity, grow holy, just and lovely as I am.' 
 Like a mere man he could not choose, but gave 
 vows to the bodiless Nemesis, and dallied none the 
 less with the fair, substantial Ge ; who, great by 
 his sovereignty, teemed innumerable gods, crea- 
 tures and objects, till an universe much such as 
 we see surrounded the distracted Uranos with its 
 appealing charms, its counterclaims and appalling 
 catastrophes. He knew neither rest nor sleep, 
 and at last, abstracting himself, sought refuge with 
 his immaterial spouse, who by disdaining his 
 licentious desires had forced upon him those 
 brittle vows of fidelity. And she, though wronged 
 and incensed, accepted that fertile sovereignty 
 which had hitherto been abused by her too fecund 
 rival. Then she brought forth consistency and 
 disinterested intelligence, and, later, the ineffable 
 delicacies of intuition, divination and perception, 
 powers as bodiless as herself, but with a beauty 
 as incapable of accepting defeat. Their in- 
 spiriting swiftness, like breaths from great winnow- 
 ing fans, commences to sift and re-sift the material 
 jumble, proving its solidity light as chaff." 
 
 There was a stir as the philosopher paused, and 
 Parrhasios, like a somnambulist, took a step 
 toward him ; then he blushed, caressed his peaked 
 black beard, and finally said : " Socrates, you 
 
 71 
 
forget the explanation which you gave of Pericles' 
 success : the skilled hand that taught the head 
 caution. Now you hold form cheap : any shape- 
 less abortion might harbour an invisible perfec- 
 tion." 
 
 The philosopher nodded gravely, then con- 
 tinued : ' The heart of man, seduced by his five 
 senses, can hardly ever spare attention to purity 
 of purpose and those limpid sequences of reason 
 which flow past him as a stream by an heron 
 whose whole mind is given to frogs. Yet single- 
 hearted effort and crystal-clear consideration are 
 children of Nemesis and demand his whole soul, 
 but obtain how much less ! And now, Par- 
 rhasios, does not a work of art last longer than 
 the man who made it ? Reaching those whom 
 he could never meet, it influences impulses he 
 could neither have conceived nor have swayed ; 
 it appeals straight to the invisible, intangible soul. 
 These are signs that Nemesis works through it 
 and that she has more than half rescued it from 
 Ge, who destroys as fast as she brings forth, and 
 will treat no one thing as more admirable than 
 any other. The artist fails because such work 
 suggests to him its apogee and then flaws and 
 falls short, so that he turns towards the next 
 in hopes to seize the intangible there ; and thus 
 admiration leads him on from creation to creation, 
 as though he followed beauty from hill-top to 
 summit and from the highest peak saw her step 
 on to a cloud. Yet this Aphrodite whom he 
 follows is the twin-sister of her who loiters among 
 flowers or lolls along the wave and is content, 
 though that mundane creature mock us as 
 strangely as trees that hang top-downwards in a 
 
 72 
 
lake. The true plant, as we know, has grown 
 upwards with patient fortitude in spite of storm 
 and winter. The water lies to us ; so does this 
 world, that seems to have no direction or a per- 
 verse one. Yet here or there through a man, or 
 through his work, the heavenly Aphrodite con- 
 vinces us of the reality of worth, startlingly 
 immune, where all else is destined fuel for that 
 flame of change which licks up the children of 
 Ge. Thus shame and ardour, invisible hammers 
 in the smithy of the heart, forge intentions to sur- 
 pass all visible things. And these dies stamp a 
 new value on stone and panel, or affix to parch- 
 ment a seal worth far more than its weight in 
 gold. And, added one to another, such enhanced 
 objects may at last pile a stairway to the im- 
 material reality. But the mature artist must 
 then turn his back on Ge and, like our Plato's blind 
 poet, treasuring a vivid memory of her beauty, set 
 his heart on the unattainable Nemesis." 
 
 A deep silence ensued. Except for Smikros 
 and Dione, who had regained one of the couches, 
 all were still standing in the vast twilit room from 
 which the birds had gradually retreated, save for 
 one quail nested on the lady's arm ; even thus, 
 little by little, all spice of pleasantry had ebbed 
 from Socrates' tone, till he now stood like a fisher- 
 man watching from a headland for the shoal, so 
 as to signal its whereabouts to the boats waiting 
 with lowered sails in shore ; so ample seemed the 
 distances which he had established between his 
 and our souls that yet yearned hungrily for his 
 words. But no shoal came in sight, and he re- 
 mained silent and alert. 
 
 At length Parrhasios said : " Supper attends 
 
 73 
 
you in the silver dining-hall," then turning to 
 Smikros : " Olpis shall now take you to Eryx- 
 machos with a message from me. He is the best 
 physician in Athens and shall keep you with him 
 as long as your hands can profit from his atten- 
 tions." As the others sauntered out through the 
 glooming portico I heard Aristocles say, " Was 
 I not right to call Socrates as pious as our grand- 
 fathers ? And yet they could not even have 
 followed the drift of such discourse " or some- 
 thing to that effect. But still the philosopher 
 stood inviolable and alone, though the others 
 frequently looked back to invite him to follow. 
 Smikros was unswathed and led away with his 
 splendid investiture rolled up under his arm 
 and his head still crowned. Gryllus and the other 
 slaves murmured with surprise at finding him, 
 after all his good fortune, still as sullen as when 
 he came ; but I fancied that his unwillingness to 
 speak had by this time a very different cause. 
 The stillness and silence were perfect before 
 Socrates was freed by his daimon ; and he was 
 making for the street with energetic decision, 
 when light from the silver hall streamed across 
 the court, and Aristocles, who must have been on 
 the watch, waylaid him and drew him, in spite 
 of some little reluctance, into that festive bright- 
 ness, over the source of which a curtain swung 
 to : and I heard and saw no more. 
 
 74 
 
An end is reached : the soul still yearns to peep, 
 Trespass, and probe beyond. Aristocles 
 Over me and my tablets some days later 
 Stooped and refused my poor confusion licence 
 To hide ill-ordered jottings. He has often 
 Since climbed to where I sit, and from the sill, 
 Between the folded shutters leaning out, 
 Bathed both his thought and eyes where swallows 
 
 swim 
 
 With patience helping me to find some phrase, 
 That like a raindrop on a thirsty leaf, 
 Revives the very thought we half recall 
 And makes it ours again. If ours, then yours, 
 Whoever you may be who read this scroll 
 And long to know what I am pleased you should, 
 How Smikros' hands, deformed, yet hold the plume 
 And draw it with increasing mastery 
 Athwart the smooth-curved clay, even as words 
 Follow my thought more deftly. We both owe 
 The intent tremors of our absorbed hours 
 To those rich patrons of our damaged lives 
 Parrhasios and Aristocles, men like gods 
 Whom our glad hearts can never thank enough. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT 
 
 The fleet is captured, three times fifty ships ! 
 
 Aristocles and Socrates both think 
 
 Athens will be besieged. 
 
 To them, Parrhasios and Dione, I 
 
 Was after supper to have read this scroll. 
 
 But now the chance can scarcely come again. 
 
 75 
 
This news has scattered them and tossed the 
 
 thought 
 
 Of me and what I write as high wind will 
 A single noteless leaf. 
 
 After the first 
 
 Exclamatory conference had lulled 
 ' We now face Nemesis ! " the poet groaned, 
 ' What man sees help in her ? ' Lifting his head 
 Socrates clasped the challenge like a hand 
 Stretched by a drowning man toward the sky : 
 ' The thing that happens, though it disappoint 
 Our every hope, is priceless all we have ; 
 And if we study it will prove enough." 
 
 " Enough for what ? Enough to save this town 
 From the victorious Lacedaemonian lords, 
 Their senses hard from years of narrow training 
 Meant to forge men like weapons of offence ? " 
 The old man answered " Do you think, my boy, 
 If even an hundred men met this disaster 
 Like eager scholars, that they could not build 
 A finer Athens, though this be sacked and burnt ? 
 The city where we dwell is in our minds 
 If we have minds worthy a town like this." 
 Aristocles was cloaked ; he stooped and kissed 
 That furrowed forehead like a sacred thing 
 Instantly, while it bowed to re-approve 
 Those words with thought. Moth-like his lips lit 
 
 there 
 
 And he was flown in quest of means to fetch 
 His parents from ^gina, now left quite 
 Without defence. Parrhasios followed him 
 To learn what captain still might dare to ship 
 Him and his goods from our hospitable land. 
 Dione glid within. First Socrates 
 Gazed round, then quit the house with everyday 
 
Demeanour like himself : the lamps burned on : 
 The street grew hoarse with shouting : no one 
 
 slept. 
 
 Though now the sun has brought the daylight back 
 Nothing can ever be the same again. 
 
Printed tit Greet! Uritain at 
 
 William Brendon S Son I 
 CX, Plymouth <J*o 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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