PREFACE.

If this romance, according to a much quoted saying of our time, “seeks out as its work,” a nation—the old Hellenic race—will not a shade of thought and pedantry seem to cling to the description of this kind of toil, since the universal labor of the Greek people was that of the artist, poet, and thinker? Will it not be inferior in freshness of sensation, to scenes drawn from the spring of simple, vigorous life, whose poetry is not yet exhausted? And, on the other hand, must not such an attempt also lack the charm of the cleverness—in the modern sense of the word—piquant realism, and bright, vivid coloring of the literary productions of the present day? Ought Hellenic life to be represented otherwise than with Hellenic simplicity, and should its chronicler strive for any thing except to gain a breath of the Hellenic spirit, the Hellenic grace? Is it not especially difficult to describe a vanished life? Minute painting of modern existence is praised as charmingly realistic; that of ancient times will produce

on many the chilling impression of erudition. Indeed, whoever merely turns over the leaves of this book, noticing that the different portions disclose views of the various sides of Hellenic life, will promptly form the opinion that he has a mere sketch-book of loose sheets, or at most a historical romance, which according to the idea of most persons, is about the same thing as no romance at all. [II]

And yet—if the romance, as an artistic work, is distinguished by its internal and external form from biography, history and mere narrative, if it is not only the expression of a life and destiny contained within itself, but also of a conflict which has a logical development and solution, what I relate here is a romance. It not merely contains, in a positive form, beautiful sensuality glorified by intellect, in its development, prime and decay; but the conflict between the æsthetic and moral ideal of existence arises and is decided in the life of an individual, and the destiny of a nation. This parallelism between the fate of individuals and nations, individual and universal life, has always hovered before me as the art-secret of epic poetry, its supreme principle, its peculiar model. Not, however, that the particulars related of individual life and those of national existence run side by side, one as it were an episode of the other, but both as far as possible, relate to one and the same detail, and resemble an organic structure, closely interwoven and blended together.

The conflict could be only slightly indicated, in order not to destroy the pure, pleasing impression of the picture—it was only permitted to advance by easy stages, and thus the action will perhaps appear to move on a very slender thread. But whatever may seem like a digression in conversations or descriptions, will without exception, at last appear in its proper light, show its necessity in relation to the whole, the idea.

Yet not to an idea in the abstract meaning of the word. Let not the reader be misled by the thought, that the course of this story turns, or is modelled, upon any “tendency” to love. What I shall relate is the unfalsified, impartial truth. I shall describe human nature and [III]the course of the world, I shall relate the acts and conduct, the struggles and aspirations of men, and the words with which they defend them. I have no tendency in view save that of life, no moral save that of necessity, no logic save that of facts, which consist of thrust and counter-thrust, as constant and regular as the swaying to and fro of a pine-tree in the wind. Philosophers are right in asserting that the idea never merges wholly into reality. The poet of tendency pursues it to a high point of its development, holds it forcibly at a spot which it really only touches in passing, makes it shimmer and sparkle for the pleasure of mortals, and converts the soap-bubble into the fixed star. Pure, unpremeditated poetry, on the contrary, accompanies the

idea on its way to realization to the spot, where to restore itself to its former purity, phœnix-like it delivers itself to a fiery death.

R. H.

Graz, November 1st, 1875. [V]

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

[1]

THE TREASURE OF DELOS.

One day, during the sultry season, in the city of the Athenians, a slender, girlish figure, accompanied by a female slave, hastily crossed the Agora. A singular result of this woman’s appearance was, that every man she met on her way paused after a glance at her face, and stood as if spellbound, following her with his eyes. The cause of this was not so much the circumstance, that it was a rare event to see a free-born Athenian woman of the aristocratic classes walking in the streets, but rather because this girlish figure possessed remarkable, nay bewildering beauty.

The faces of those who stared at her in passing, or stood rooted to the ground gazing after her, wore every possible expression of astonishment.

Some smiled, the eyes of grey-beards sparkled, others cast a sneering glance at the beautiful woman, and others still wore on their faces a shade of reverence, as if they beheld a goddess. Some displayed the grave, well-satisfied demeanor of connoisseurs, others looked semi-idiotic, standing with mouths half-open in amazement. There were even a few, who made a scornful grimace and cast an angry, piercing glance at the fair one, as if beauty were a crime. Men walking in pairs [2]or standing in groups, interrupted their conversation. Faces that bore the stamp of weariness suddenly brightened, frowning brows smoothed. Every soul was stirred.

The appearance of this beautiful woman was like a sunbeam shining into an arbor of roses, where the midges instantly begin a bacchanalian dance.

Among those whose attention was attracted, were two men, walking silently side by side. Both were of grave, calm, dignified and noble aspect; the younger, dark-haired and stately, was not without a touch of effeminacy in the contour of his features; his taller companion’s bearing inspired a feeling akin to reverence; the crown of his head, above the thoughtful brow, was perfectly bald. The pair recalled the fiery Achilles walking beside Agamemnon, the ruler of the people.

The younger man cast a glance of surprise at the beautiful woman; his friend was perfectly unmoved—it seemed as if he had seen the fair face before, nay he appeared so unsympathizing, so completely absorbed in other thoughts, that the former repressed the question already hovering on his lips.

A slave followed the two men, who were walking over the long, dusty road to the Piræeus.

The younger sometimes gazed watchfully at the glittering waves of the Saronic Gulf. His eye was keen as an eagle’s, and he caught sight of a ship as yet invisible to any other vision. He saw it appear on the verge of the horizon, but at this distance its progress was imperceptible. This man looked like a person who could control his emotions, but while gazing at the far off vessel, it sometimes seemed for a moment as if he would fain wing the lingering sails with his own breath. [3]

If the eye wandered towards the right from the road along which they were walking, it rested upon a wall glittering in the sun, which extended from the city to the rocky strand. Turning to the left, another wall of the same kind appeared, which fairly seemed to grow under the spectator’s gaze. Workmen were piling blocks of hewn stone one above another, and where the mass was finished, the noise of hammers beating the metal clamps into the stones, echoed for a long distance.

This wall also extended to the sea, swept off in a wide curve, and joining the other, seemed to enclose the port and its buildings, above and below the city, in a protecting embrace.

The eyes of the younger man rested searchingly, but with a satisfied expression, on this wall, whenever they turned a moment from the distant sail. At last, while gazing at the endless line of firmly united blocks, he turned to his companion, and said smiling:

“If every persuasive word I have spoken to the Athenians in behalf of this work, could have become a stone, the completed structure would have stood before us long ago. But even as it is, we at last see the end approaching.”

“And was this middle wall really indispensable?” asked the other, with a careless glance at the work.

“It was. The old left wall turned much too far towards Phalerum. A large portion of the shore of the harbor was unprotected. The problem is now wholly solved. The city of Pallas Athena, brilliant and beautiful, sustained by the tributes of the Hellenic coasts and islands, has risen rejuvenated from the ashes of the Persian war, flung this girdle of stone about her limbs, and will soon be strong enough to defy the envious [4]whose tongues utter the Greek language, no less than the assaults of all the barbarians of the East.”

The man who thus addressed his companion was the son of Xanthippus, Pericles, the Alcmæonid, surnamed the Olympian.

His friend was a famous sculptor in bronze and marble, named Phidias. The famous statue of Pallas Athena was the work of his hands. From the height of the Acropolis, it was visible throughout the Attic country, and even on the horizon, where approaching sailors joyously hailed the golden spear-head of the goddess, as the first token of the spell of “violet-wreathed Athens.”

The long lines of stone blocks looked almost monotonous, but steeped in the light of the Greek sky, presented no aspect of gloom. An animated throng surged to and fro between them. The shouts of the mule-drivers echoed loudly on the air, and the richly-laden beasts moved in long trains along the road from city to harbor, and harbor to city.

Here and there, close beside the way, grew a grove of olive-trees, whose green branches ever and anon swayed gently beneath the refreshing breeze blowing from the gulf.

Whenever this occurred, the sculptor raised his broad-brimmed petasus, to let the air fan his high, bald forehead, but the “Olympian” only strode onward more sturdily, and fixed his eyes still more intently on the trireme, which was gradually approaching the harbor.

The two men were now only a short distance from the sea. The harbor was gained. Here too Pericles’ glance wandered over the scene with an air of satisfaction. The greater portion of the objects visible to the eye, broad, straight, stately streets—a new thing to the Greeks [5]of those days—was his work. Here was the magnificent market-place, surrounded by porticos, which had received the name of its builder, Hippodamus the Milesian. On the left, above the theatre’s forest of pillars, stood the rows of houses built on the slopes of the fortified hill of Munychia, and on the summit of this hill gleamed the marble temple of Artemis. In the plain below, lines of storehouses stretched in endless succession to the sea—the magnificent stoa of Pericles, the vast warehouses, where discharged cargoes could remain until sold or reshipped, the huge market-place of the port, the merchandise exchange, the “Deigma,” where mariners and traders displayed their goods and made their bargains.

In these shops, on these stone terraces, the clever Greek stood on the firm foundation of his own powers, rejoicing that with the prosperity of the whole community his own wealth increased. Here he took from the hands of the friendly sea-god the horn of plenty, overflowing with all the gifts of foreign lands, and saw the last rippling waves of the Pontus, the Nile, and the Indian Ocean vanish in foam upon his native strand.

Here thronged the Greeks of the time of Pericles; beautiful brown figures, standing forth in picturesque relief against the background of white marble buildings. Most heads were bare, the scanty light garment, similar in shape to a shawl or cloak, was thrown carelessly over one shoulder—but they stood between the marble columns like bronze statues, in their plastic beauty. Only they gesticulated eagerly, the sound of the musical Hellenic idiom was audible in the confusion of voices; full of energy in speech and motion, they were yet dignified as actors. [6]

Since, after successful wars, the Athenian gained the empire of the sea, he learned to go to the port of the Piræeus and gather riches. He sought ship owners for distant voyages and speculations, visited brokers and exchangers, advanced or collected money, or if he had none to deposit or receive, borrowed some; for commerce was flourishing, and the Athenian understood how to take advantage of his opportunities. He knew when it was time to import grain from Pontus, wood from Thrace, papyrus from Egypt, carpets from Miletus, dainty shoes from Sicyon, or grapes from Rhodes. He knew too where his olive-oil, honey, figs, articles of wrought metal, and vessels of clay were needed, and would bring the highest prices. And the brokers and exchangers gave the money without much hesitation. The rate of interest was high, and a man can afford to risk something for a large percentage. So many a freedman, many a Pasio, many a Simo, many a Phormio sat contentedly behind his table in the Piræeus, and behaved like a person

in authority, for contracts were made before him. He paid out two talents without a change of countenance, received them when deposited with equal indifference, wrote the amounts and the names of the depositors in his book, and thus settled the matter. People trusted Pasio’s honesty, and Pasio was honest, at least so long as the profit of fraud did not outweigh the disadvantage of a tarnished character.

The two companions now beheld the sea, whose emerald green waves rippled gently against the stone terraces. The deeply embayed harbor of the Piræeus lay before the gaze. Two huge towers, on the right and left of the entrance, guarded the haven like warders of the sea-gate. In times of peril a gigantic iron chain could be [7]swung from one to the other. Innumerable round-bellied merchant vessels lay at anchor in the port; but the shore on the left was completely covered by the high-decked triremes of the Athenian navy, drawn up on land according to Greek custom, each in its special enclosure, like monsters resting in their dens, mighty sea-dragons with fantastic beaks and tails saucily curled; while beyond, on the other side of the peninsula of the Piræeus, in the military havens of Zea and Munychia, were more of these superb sea monsters. Behind them extended the naval arsenals, where the sails of the dismantled ships were kept, and still farther beyond, the wharves, where fresh timber for vessels was constantly unloaded, new keels were continually laid.

The sail Pericles had seen on its way to the Piræeus, was now just entering the harbor. It was the Athenian ship “Amphitrite.”

The crowds of people surged towards the landing-place; a roar of voices echoed from every shop, every terrace:

“The Amphitrite has arrived”—“the Amphitrite with the treasure of Delos”—“the Amphitrite with the money of the league.” “So that cunning fellow, Pericles, has succeeded?” “What will the allies say to it?” “Whatever they choose, we are at their head, we protect them, we send our triremes to their coasts, we wage their wars, in return they pay the money—what we save is our property.”

The sound of flutes echoed from the vessel, as it approached nearer.

On the Amphitrite, like all the government ships of the Athenians, the stroke of the oars was directed by the music of flutes. Songs also resounded from the rowers’ [8]benches, and amid the melody was heard the plash of the waves beaten by countless oars. The image of the goddess of the sea, whose name the ship bore, glittered on the prow, and the edge of the lofty deck, beautifully painted, gleamed in the sunshine. Song, music of the flutes, and plash of waves were all drowned by the jubilant shouts of the populace, loudly returned by the weather-beaten sailors on the ship.

The notes of the flutes died away, the oars no longer moved, the ship lay motionless, ropes creaked, cables rattled, the crew rushed to and fro on deck, the anchor was lowered, the sails taken in, and a ladder stretched from the ship to the shore. Several Athenian dignitaries were standing close by the edge of the wharf. Pericles approached them and said a few words. There was something peculiar, something marvellous in the tone of his voice. Those who had not yet recognized him knew him now; for while all the Athenians could not see his face in the popular assemblies on the Pnyx, every one heard, every one knew his voice. Some of the magistrates crossed the ladder to the ship’s deck.

After some time a couple of iron-bound, well-secured casks were raised from the ship’s hold and conveyed to the land, where a train of mules waited for the heavy load. The trierarch came on shore and talked with Pericles.

The Amphitrite had borne a golden treasure over the blue waves, under the eager eyes of the sympathizing Athenian populace. It was the treasure of the allied Greeks and at Pericles’ instigation, came from Delos, the “star of the sea,” to mighty Athens, no longer to be used as the property of the confederate states, but received as the tribute of the cities and isles. [9]

There is a touch of mystery, a twilight atmosphere, a breath of the unknown about golden treasure, which kindles conscious hopes, inspires vague anxiety. The ingot of gold is coined, but the coin becomes again unstamped in the owner’s hand. It is transformed under every finger that touches it. To one it brings a blessing, to another a curse. And thus this treasure of Delos, on which the Athenians’ eyes rested so expectantly—who knows whether it will bring curse or blessing, purchase pleasure or remorse, create lasting or perishable monuments? Who knows the winds that will blow from this pipe of Æolus?

“With this gold Athens might be made the invincible citadel of Hellas,” thought some of the official personages who surrounded Pericles.

“With this gold the naval power of Athens might be strengthened, Sicily and Egypt conquered, the Persians attacked and Sparta crushed,” thought the trierarch.

“With this gold they might give us festivals and plays,” thought the throngs that filled the stone terraces of the harbor.

“With this gold the most superb temples might be built, the most magnificent statues erected!” thought the grave sculptor, who stood beside Pericles.

And Pericles himself? In his brain, and his alone, all these thoughts were united.

The train of mules, intended to convey the golden burden from the harbor to the city, began to move. The throng of Athenians dispersed, and Pericles set out with Phidias on their homeward way. As the greater portion of the crowd flocked after the treasure, the road to the Piræeus was nearly empty, and individuals could be distinctly recognized. [10]

On the marble slab of one of the tombs that stood by the roadside, sat two men engaged in eager conversation. The face of one expressed the cheerful dignity of the sage, but his companion’s features were gloomy, and his glowing eyes revealed fanatical obstinacy. The former greeted Pericles with a pleasant smile, while the latter cast a hostile glance at him.

The two men had walked on for some distance, when they saw a youth standing in the middle of the road, absorbed in thought. He seemed to have forgotten the world or lost his footing on it, and to be now reflecting where he could find a new one. His features were peculiar, but by no means attractive, and he gazed steadily at the ground.

“One of my stone-cutters,” said Phidias to his companion, patting the young man on his shoulder as if to rouse him, “a worthy fellow, but very odd. He toils steadily in my workshop one day, and the next disappears. It is his habit to stand lost in meditation.”