LITMIR.BIZ

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Sophist.

      “To the mob! They will always justify you,” Alcibiades interrupted.

      “One does not say ‘mob’ if one is a democrat, Alcibiades. And one does not quote Aeschylus when Euripides is present. When Phidias sits here one would rather speak of his Parthenon and his Athene, whose robe even now glitters in the sinking sun. Courtesy is the salt of social life.”

      Thus Pericles sought to direct the conversation into a new channel, but the Sophist thwarted him.

      “If Phidias’ statue of Athene must borrow its gold from the sun, that may prove that the gold granted by the State did not suffice, and that therefore there is a deficiency. Is it not so, Socrates?”

      The master silenced with his outstretched hand the murmur of disapproval which arose, and said:

      “It must first be proved that Phidias’ statue must borrow gold from the sun, but since that is unproved, it is absurd to talk of a deficit. Moreover, gold cannot be borrowed from the sun. Therefore what Protagoras says is mere babble, and deserves no answer. On the other hand, will Phidias answer this question? ‘When you have made Athene up there on the Parthenon, have you made Athene?’”

      “I have made her image,” answered Phidias.

      “Right! You have made her image. But after what pattern?”

      “After the pattern in my mind.”

      “Not after an external one, then? Have you seen the goddess with your eyes?”

      “Not with my outward eyes.”

      “Does she then exist outside you, or inside you?”

      “If no one were listening to us, I would answer ‘She is not outside of me, therefore she is not anywhere at all.’”

      Pericles interrupted him: “You are talking of the gods of the State: friends, take care!”

      “Help, Protagoras! Socrates is throttling me!” cried Phidias.

      “In my opinion it is not Zeus but Prometheus who has created men,” answered the Sophist. “But Zeus gave unfinished man two imperishable gifts—the sense of shame and conscience.”

      “Then Protagoras was not made by Zeus, for he lacks both.” This thrust came from Alcibiades. But now the taciturn tragedian Euripides began to speak: “Allow me to say something both about Zeus and about Prometheus; and don’t think me discourteous if I cite my great teacher Aeschylus when I speak about the gods.”

      But Pericles broke in: “Unless my eyes deceive me, I saw just now a pair of ears projecting from behind the pillar of Hermes, and these ass’s ears can only belong to the notorious tanner.”

      “Cleon!” exclaimed Alcibiades.

      But Euripides continued: “What do I care about the tanner, since I do not fear the gods of the State? These gods, whose decline Aeschylus foretold long ago! Does not his Prometheus say that the Olympian Zeus will be overthrown by his own descendant—the son that will be born of a virgin? Is it not so, Socrates?”

      “Certainly: ‘she will bear a son who is stronger than his father.’ But who it will be, and when he will be born, he does not say. Now I believe that Zeus already lies in extremis.”

      Again the warning voice of Pericles was heard. “The gods of the State! Hush, friends! Cleon is listening!”

      “I, on the other hand,” broke in Alcibiades, “believe that Athens is near her end. While we have been celebrating the victory of Salamis, the Spartans have risen and devastated the north. Megaris, Locris, Boeotia, and Phocis are already on her side.”

      “What you say is well known,” answered Pericles deprecatingly, “but at present there is a truce, and we have three hundred ships at sea. Do you think, Socrates, that there is danger?”

      “I cannot mix in the affairs of State; but if Athens is in danger, I will take up shield and lance as before.”

      “When you saved my life at Potidaea,” added Alcibiades.

      “No, the danger is not there,” interrupted Euripides—“not in Sparta, but here at home. The demagogues have stirred up the marsh, and therefore we have the pestilence in the Agora, and the pestilence in the Piraeus.”

      “That in Piraeus is the worse of the two,” said Protagoras; “don’t you think so, Alcibiades?”

      “Yes, for there are my best girls. My flute-players, who are to perform at supper this evening, live by the harbour. But, by Hercules, no one here fears death, I suppose?”

      “No one fears, and no one wishes it,” answered Socrates; “but if you have other girls, that would increase our pleasure.”

      “Euripides does not like girls,” interrupted Protagoras.

      “That is not true,” answered Euripides; “I like girls, but not women.”

      Pericles rose: “Let us go to supper, and have walls round our conversation—walls without ears! Support me, Phidias, I am tired.”

      Plato approached Socrates: “Master, let me carry your mantle?” he asked.

      “That is my function, boy,” said Alcibiades, intercepting him.

      “It was once,” objected Socrates; “now it belongs to Plato of the broad head. Notice his name! He descends from Codrus, the last king, who gave his life to save his people. Plato is of royal birth.”

      “And Alcibiades is of the race of heroes, the Alcmaeonidae, like his uncle Pericles; a noble company.”

      “But Phidias is of the race of the gods; that is more.”

      “I am probably descended from the Titans,” broke in Protagoras. “I say ‘probably,’ for one knows nothing at all, and hardly that. Don’t you think so, Socrates?”

      “You know nothing at all, and least of all what you talk about.” The company passed through the Sacred Street, and went together to the theatre of Dionysus, near which Alcibiades lived.

      The demagogue Cleon had really been lurking out of sight, and listening to the conversation. And so had another man with a yellow complexion and a full black beard, who seemed to belong to the artisan class. When the brilliant company had departed, Cleon stepped forward, laid his hand on the stranger’s shoulder, and said:

      “You have heard their conversation?”

      “Certainly I have,” he answered.

      “Then you can give evidence.”

      “I cannot give evidence, because I am a foreigner.”

      “Still you have heard how they spoke against the gods of the State.”

      “I am a Syrian, and only know one true God. Your gods are not mine.”

      “You are a Hebrew, then! What is your name?”

      “I am an Israelite, of the family of Levi, and call myself now Cartophilus.”

      “A Phoenician, then?”

      “No, a Hebrew. My forefathers came out of Ur of the Chaldees, then fell into bondage in Egypt, but were brought by Moses and Joshua to the land of Canaan, where we became powerful under our own kings, David and Solomon.”

      “I don’t know them.”

      “Two hundred years ago our city Jerusalem was destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, and our people were carried captive to Babylon. But when Babylon was overthrown by the King of Persia, we fell under the power of the Persians, and have groaned under the successors of your Xerxes of Salamis, whom we called Ahasuerus.”

      “Your enemies, our enemies! Very well, friend; how did you come here.”

      “When the Assyrian was about to carry us for the first time into captivity, those who could flee, fled to Rhodes, Crete, and the islands of Greece. But of those who were carried away some were sent northwards to Media. My ancestors came hither from Media, and I am a new-comer.”

      “Your

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