“Eros is son of earth and heaven, but persuasion is Aphrodite’s daughter.”  So Sappho sang.  The note, new and true as well, became, as fresh truth ever does become, revolutionary.  Athens heard it.  Even Sparta listened.  Corinth and Miletus repeated it in clinging keys.

With the new truth came a new era.  Through meditations patient and prolonged Calypso had succeeded in adding coquetry to love.  With a distich Sappho emancipated it.  To the despotism that insisted she suggested the duty of asking; to the submission that had obeyed she indicated the grace that grants; yet, posing as barrier between each, the right and liberty of choice, which already Rhodopis had exacted.

Then the new era came.  The gynaeceum was not emptied.  Wives were still shut apart.  But elsewhere, with that marvel which Atticism was, came the sense of personal dignity, the conception of individuality, the theory of freedom, and, ultimately, in streets where women of position could not venture unaccompanied and unveiled, they were free to come and go at will, to mingle with men, to assist at comedies and games, to become what women are to-day, with this difference, they were more handsome and less pretty.  To a people naturally aesthetic the revolution naturally appealed.  Led by the irresistible authority of beauty, for support it had the sovereign prestige of the muse.

In stooping to conquer, Erato smiled, supplying, as she did so, another conception, one as novel as the first, the idea that, after all, though love is a serious thing, the mingling of a little gayety in it is not forbidden.  It was to Anacreon that Erato offered that chord, threw it rather, laughing, in his face.  The poet, laughing too, took and plucked it lightly, producing quick airs, conceits of pleasure and of wine.  When Sappho sang, it was with all her fervent soul.  When she loved it was with all her fervid heart.  She sang as the nightingales of Lesbos sang, because singing was her life, and she sang of love because she could sing of nothing else.  Anacreon did not pretend to sing.  He hummed as the bees of Hymettus hummed, over this flower and over that, indifferent to each, caring not for them, for their sweets merely, eager to get all he could as quickly as he might, smacking his faunesque lips over the grape, staggering with a hiccough along the lanes of love, trailing among them strophes to Bacchus rather than to Eros, yet managing to combine the two and leaving finally to the world that chord with its notes of pleasure.

These, mounting behind Sappho’s songs, spread through Hellas, creating as they spread a caste that borrowed from the girl her freedom, from the bard his wit, and, from the fusion, produced the hetaira.

Hetaira is a term which Sappho applied to her pupils.  It means comrade.  But either because it was too elusive for history’s detention or too fragile for its care, it became corrupted, shoved roughly by stupid hands among the pornai.  The latter were the hierodules of Aphrodite Pandemos.  The hetairae were objects of art, patiently fashioned in fastidious convents, a class of highly educated young women to whom marriage did not necessarily appeal but to whom liberty was essential, girls “pleasanter,” Amphis said, “than the wife, for she with the law on her side, can sit in your house and despise you.”

Such an attitude is not enticing.  The hetairae were an alterative from it, and, at the same time, a protest against existing feminine conditions.  These conditions the legislature could not change but the protest the legislature could and did encourage.  While the wife sat contemptuous in the severe gynaeceum, the hetairae mingled with men, charming them always, marrying them occasionally, yet only when their own equality and independence was recognized and conserved.

It was into a union of this kind that Pericles entered with Aspasia.  He never regretted it, though history has affected to regard it as illicit, and Aspasia as Omphale.  The affectation is an injustice.  “In all things,” Pericles said, “a man’s life should be as clean as his hands.”  What Aspasia said is not recorded.  But it is not improbable that she inspired the remark.

Aspasia was born and educated at Miletus.  It was chiefly there and at Corinth that the hetairae were trained.  In these cities, seminaries had been established where girls rose from studies as serious as those which the practice of other liberal professions comport.  Their instruction comprised everything that concerned the perfectioning of the body and everything that related to the embellishment of the mind.  In addition to calisthenics, there were courses in music, poetry, diction, philosophy, politics, and art.  The graduates were admirable.  Their beauty was admirable also.  But they were admired less for that than because the study of every grace had contributed to their understanding of the unique art, which is that of charming.  Charm they exhaled.  Gifted and accomplished, they were the only women with whom an enlightened Greek could converse.  Their attitude was irreproachable, their distinction extreme, and they differed from other women only in that their manners were more correct.  Plato had one of them for muse.  Sophocles another.  To Glycera, of whom Menander wrote, poetry was an insufficient homage, a statue was erected to her.

These instances, anomalous now, were logical then.  To the Greek the gifts of the gods were more beneficent here than hereafter.  Of divine gifts none was more appreciated and none more allied to the givers than beauty.  The value attached to it, prodigious in peace, was potent in war, potent in law.  At Plataea, Callicrates was numbered among the heroes because of his looks.  For the same reason Philippus, killed in battle, was nobly buried and worshipped by those who had been his foes.  For the same reason Phryne, charged with high crimes, was acquitted.

At the Eleusinian mysteries, beneath the portico of the temple, before assembled Athens, Phryne appeared in the guise of Aphrodite rising from the sea.  Charged with parodying the rites, she was summoned before the Areiopagus.  Conviction meant death.  But her beauty, which her advocate suddenly and cleverly disclosed, was her sole defence.  It sufficed for the acquittal of this woman whose statue, the work of Praxiteles, was placed in the temple at Delphi.

The tomb of a sister had for epitaph:  “Greece, formerly invincible, was conquered and enslaved by the beauty of Lais, daughter of Love, graduate of Corinth, who here rests in the noble fields of Thessaly.”  For Thais a monument was erected.  At Tarsus Glycera had honors semi-divine.  In Greece, let a woman be what she might, if beautiful she was deified, if charming she was adored.  In either case she represented vivified aestheticism to a people at once intellectual and athletic, temperate and rich, a people who, contemptous of any time-consuming business, supported by a nation of slaves, possessing in consequence that wide leisure without which the richest are poor, attained in their brilliant city almost the ideal.  They knew nothing of telegraphs and telephones, but they knew as little of hypocrisy and cant.  Art and aesthetics sufficed.

In Corinthian and Milesian convents aesthetics were taught to girls who, lifting their fair hands to Aphrodite, prayed that they might do nothing that should not charm, say nothing that should not please.  These studies and rituals were supplemented in the Academe.  There they learned that the rightful path in love consisted in passing from beautiful manners to beautiful thoughts, from beautiful thoughts to beautiful aspirations, from beautiful aspirations to beautiful meditations, and that, in so passing, they attained wisdom absolute which is beauty supreme.

It would be excessive to fancy that all graduates followed these precepts and entered with them into the austere regions where Beauty, one and indivisible, resides.  It would be not only excessive but unreasonable.  Manners were proper for all, but for some revenues were better.  Those of Phryne were so ample that she offered to rebuild the walls of Thebes.  Those of Lais were such that she erected temples.  But Phryne and Lais came later, in post-Aspasian days, when Corinth, in addition to schools, had marts in which beauty was an article of commerce and where pleasure received the same official encouragement that stoicism had at Sparta.  In the train of Lais, Ishtar followed.  It was Alexander that invoked her.

In the age of Pericles and Aspasia, Athens was too aesthetic to heed the one, too young to know the other.  Pallas alone, she who from her crystal parapets saw and foresaw what the years would bring, could have told.  Otherwise there was then not a shadow on Athens, light only, light that has never been excelled, light which from high porches, from tinted péristyles, from gleaming temples, from shining statues, from white immortals, from hill to sea, from Olympus itself, radiated, revealing in its intense vibrations the glare of genius at its apogee.

Whatever is beautiful had its apotheosis then.  Whatever was superb found there its home.  Athens had risen to her full height.  Salamis had been fought.  A handful of athletes had routed Asia.  Reverse the picture and the glare could not have been.  Its aurora would have swooned back into darkness.  But such was the luminousness it acquired that one ray, piercing the mediaeval night, created the Renaissance, art’s rebirth, the recall of antique beauty.

Salamis lifted Greece to the skies.  In the return was a new epoch, the most brilliant the world has known, a brief century packed with the art of ages, filled to the tips with grace, lit with a light that still dazzles.  It was too fair.  Willed by destiny, it menaced the supremacy of the divine.  “But by whom,” Io asked, “is Destiny ruled?” “By the Furies,” was the prompt reply.

They were there.  From the depths of the archaic skies they were peering, prepared to pounce.  After one war, another.  After the rout of incoherent Persia, a duel between Athens and Sparta, a duel of jealousy, feminine in rancor, virile in strength, from which Sparta backed, yet only to return and fight again, only to fall at last as Athens did, as Thebes did too, beneath the might of Macedon, expiring all of them in those convulsions that summoned Rome.

Meanwhile there was but light.  Death had not come.  In between was the unexampled reign of beauty during which, after AEschylus and Pindar, came the splendors of Sophocles, the magnificence of Euripides, Socratic wisdom, and the rich, rare laugh of Aristophanes.  That being insufficient, there was Pheidias, there was Plato, art at its highest, beauty at its best, and, that the opulent chain they formed might not sever too suddenly, there followed Praxiteles, Apelles, Aristotle, Epicurus, and Demosthenes.  Even with them that chain could not end.  Intertwisting with the coil of death, it Hellenized Asia, Atticized Alexandria, girdled Rome, resting in the latter’s Lower Empire until recovered by the delighted Renaissance.

The names of the Periclean age are high.  There is a higher one yet, that of Pericles.  Statesman, orator, philosopher, soldier, artist, poet, and lover, Pericles was so great that, another Zeus, he was called the Olympian.  If to him Egeria came, would it not, a poet somewhere asked, be uncivil to depict her as less than he?  It would be not only uncivil but untrue.

Said Themistocles, “You see that boy of mine?  Though but five, he governs the universe.  Yes, for he rules his mother, his mother rules me, I rule Athens and Athens the world.”  After Themistocles it was Pericles’ turn to govern and be ruled.  His sovereign was Aspasia.

Aspasia had come from Miletus with another hetaira to Athens which her companion vacated to be bride of a Thessalian king, but where she became the wife of one beside whom mere kings were nothing.  It was her beauty that first attracted Pericles.  Beauty does attract, but only graciousness can detain.  In the home of Pericles there was none, a woman merely of the Xantippe type from whom he separated by common consent and put Aspasia, not in her inferior place, but on a pedestal before which he knelt.  Aspasia became not merely his wife but his inspiration, his comrade, his aid.  She worked for him and with him.  She encouraged him in his work, accompanied him in his battles, consoled him in his fatigues, entertained his friends, talked philosophy with Socrates, frivolity with Alcibiades, art with Pheidias, but love to him, displaying what Athens had socially never seen, the spectacle of delicacy, culture, wit, beauty, and ease united in a woman, and that woman a woman of the world.

The sight, highly novel, established a precedent and with it fresh conceptions of what woman might be.  In the Iliad, she was money.  Money has a language of its own.  In the enchanted islands of the Odyssey she was charm.  Charm has a more distinct appeal.  In Lesbos she was emancipated and that made her headier still.  But in the opulent Athenian nights Aspasia revealed her not physically attractive merely, not personally alluring only, not simply free, but spirituelle, addressing the mind as well as the eye, inspiring the one, refining the other, captivating the soul as well as the senses, the ideal woman, comrade, helpmate, and sweetheart in one.

Like the day it was too fair.  Presently the duel occurred.  Lacedaemon, trailing the pest in her tunic, ravaged the Eleusinian glades.  Pericles died.  Aspasia disappeared.  The duel, waning a moment, was resumed.  It debilitated Sparta, exhausted Athens, and awoke Thebes, who fell on both but only to be eaten by Philip.

It would have been interesting to have seen that man and his Epeirote queen who hung serpents about her, played with them among poisonous weeds and who, because of another woman, killed her king, burned her rival alive, and gave to the world Alexander.

It would have been more interesting still to have seen the latter when, undermined by every vice of the vicious East, with nothing left to conquer, with no sin left to commit, with no crime left undone, he descended into the great sewer that Babylon was and there, in a golden house, on a golden throne, in the attributes of divinity was worshipped as a god.  Behind him was a background of mitred priests and painted children, about him were the fabulous beasts that roamed into heraldry, with them was a harem of three hundred and sixty-five odalisques apportioned to the days of the year, while above swung the twelve signs of the zodiac.  In that picture Rome was to find the prototype of her Caesars, as in it already Hellas has seen the supplanting of Aphrodite by Ishtar.

Greece, still young, lingered briefly, then without decrepitude, without decadence, ceased, nationally, to be.  Aphrodite, young too, died with her.  As Venus Pandemos Rome evoked her.  The evocation was successful.  Venus Pandemos appeared.  But even from Olympus, which together with Hellenic civilization, Rome absorbed, Aphrodite had already departed.  Those who truly sought her found her indeed, but like the art she inspired only in marble and story.