I MUST remind the indulgent reader, lest Helen and I should appear tediously opulent, that our Swiss trip in the winter was due to a windfall of a hundred pounds—a thing which may conceivably happen to anybody, and in this instance happened to us. Consequently, the fact that we went abroad again in April does not, if it is considered fairly, argue aggressive riches. In any case, refuse to stoop to degrading justifications. We did not go because it was good for our healths, which were both excellent, nor because foreign travel improves and expands the mind. As a matter of fact, I do not believe it does, for the majority of travellers are always comparing the foreign scenes they visit with spots in their native land, vastly to the advantage of the latter, and the farther and more frequently they go, the more deep-rooted becomes their insularity. We went merely because we{320} enjoyed it, and had formed a careful plan of retrenchment afterwards, being about to let the Sloane Street house for the three summer months. That was rather a severe decision to come to, since we both hate the idea of strangers using ‘our things’ and sleeping in our beds; but by these means this expedition to Greece became possible, and when once it was possible it had already become necessary.

 

So here we sat this morning on the steps of the little temple of Wingless Victory, wingless, as the old sunlit myth said, because, when the nymph lighted on the sacred rock of the Acropolis, she stripped off her wings, which were henceforward useless to her, since she would abide here for ever, just below the great house of defence that the Athenians had raised to the Wisdom of God, Athene, who was born full-grown and in panoply of shield, and helmet, and spear, from the head of Zeus. Out of his head she sprang in painless birth, with a cry that was heard by Echo on Hymettus, and rang back in Echo’s voice across the plain, the shout of the wisdom of God incarnate.{321}

And then Poseidon, the lord of the sea, who coveted these fair Attic plains, challenged Athene for the ownership thereof. Each must produce a sign of godhead, and the most excellent should win for its manifestor all the plain of Attica. There, high on the rock, where the great birth had taken place, were the lists set, and with his trident Poseidon struck the mountain-top, and from the dent there flowed a stream of the salt sea, which was his kingdom; and then the grey-eyed goddess of wisdom laid aside her spear, and from the waving of her white hands there sprang an olive-tree, the sign of peace and of plenty. So Poseidon went down to his realm again, where no man may gather the harvest; for none could question which was the more excellent sign.

It was after this, after the Athenians had raised the great house to the Wisdom of God, that Wingless Victory came to abide here. It was not fit, for all her greatness, to build her a house on the ground that had been given to Athene, so just outside the gates they made this platform of stone, and raised on it the shrine that looks towards Salamis.{322}

Fables, so beautiful that they needed no further evidence of their truth, sprang from ancient Greece, as flowers from a fruitful field. Whether they were true or not, whether that peerless woman’s form that stands now in stone in the Louvre, alighting with rush of windy draperies on the ship’s prow, ever was seen here by mortal eye, or whether the myth but grew from the brain of this wonderful people, matters not at all. Beauty, according to their creed, was one with truth, just as ugliness was falsehood. They denied ugliness: they would have none of it, and it was from the practice of that conviction that there rose the flawless city of art. Never, so we must believe, during that wonderful century and a half, when from the ground, maybe, of the lifeless hieratic Egyptian art there shot up that transcendent flower of loveliness, of which even the fragments that remain to us now, battered and disfigured as they are, are in another zone of beauty compared to all that went before or has come afterwards, was anything ugly produced at all, except as deliberate caricature. It was no Renaissance—it was Naissance itself—the birth of the beautiful.{323} On every side shot out the rays of the miraculous many-coloured star: from the marble of Pentelicus flowed that torrent of statues which make all others look coarse and unlovely, for the speed of the Greek eye was such that they saw attitudes which pass before we of slower vision have perceived them. Sometimes they saw things that were in themselves ungraceful, but how Pheidias must have laughed with glee when, among the seventy horses of the great procession on the frieze, he put in one that, cantering, stood upon one leg, while the other three were bunched underneath it. Taken by itself, it is a grotesque; taken with the others, it gives to the jubilant procession of youths and horses the one perfect touch. More than two thousand years ago a Greek saw that; two thousand years later we with our focal planes in photography can say he was right.

In all arts the Greeks were right; they cut through the onyx of the sardonyx, leaving the lucent image in the sard; in the less eternal clay they made the statuettes of Tanagra—those sketches of attitudes so natural and momentary that, looking, we can scarcely believe that they{324} do not move: where a woman has already made up her mind to take a step forward, but has just not taken it; where she is in act of throwing the knuckle-bones, but has yet not thrown them; where a boy has determined to push back his chiton (for the day is hot), but has just not made the movement. You cannot hope to understand the Greek genius, unless you realize that our eyes are snails as compared with theirs. They saw with the naked eye what our instantaneous photograph now tells us is the case.

And of their paintings! We have none left (and there’s the pity of it) which even reflect the Greek master at his best. But corresponding to our English paintings on china, we have the Greek vases of the fourth and fifth centuries. They were made by journeymen in potters’ shops, but there is not one that lacks the supremacy of knowledge and observation. It is as if a china-shop in the Seven Dials suddenly displayed in its window examples of the nude figure which showed a perfect knowledge not only of anatomy, but of the romance of movement. The sculptors and painters of Greece saw perfectly. Even our academicians{325} themselves appear to us to be not flawless. But in Greece we are not dealing with these great lords of colour and drawing: we deal only, as far as drawing goes, with little people in back streets. The noble church of St. Paul in the City of London, which so few people visit, was lately decorated. At this moment I look on a sketch of a fragment of pottery.... It is by one like whom there were thousands. It happens to be perfect in draughtsmanship.

To think of one day in ancient Athens! In the morning I went up (I feel as if I must have done this) to see the new statue of Athene Promachos, which Pheidias had just finished. We knew little then about his work, except that he had been chosen to decorate the Parthenon, and those who had seen his sketches for the frieze (which we can see now in the British Museum) said that they were ‘not bad.’ So after breakfast my friend and I strolled towards the Acropolis, talking, as Athenians talked, of ‘some new thing’—in fact, we talked of several new things, and, being Athenians, we got quite hot about them, since we had (being Athenians) that keenness of soul that never says ‘I do{326}n’t care about that,’ or ‘I take no interest in this.’ Everything was intensely interesting. It was a hot morning, and the plane-trees by the Ilyssus looked attractive, and there was a company of people there whose talk might be stimulating, but to-day we were too busy: we had to see the Athene Promachos, a bronze statue by Pheidias, forty feet high, and after lunch (lunch was going to be rather grand, because a new play was coming out, and Pericles was going to be there, and perhaps Aspasia) we were going to ?schylus’s new tragedy, called the ‘Agamemnon.’ And my friend, who was Alcibiades, was giving a supper-party in the evening. Socrates was coming, and a man who was really very pleasant, only he listened and made notes, but seldom talked. His name was Plato.

Alcibiades was rather profane sometimes, and spoke of the great gods as if he did not really believe in them. I, knowing him so well, knew that he did, and that it was only his Puck-like spirit which made him in talk make light of what he believed. All up the steps of the Propyl?a he was, though amusing, rather profane, and then we came through the central{327} gate, which was yet unfinished, and straight in front of us was the statue. And some jest—I know not what—died on my friend’s lips, and his great grey eyes suddenly became dim with tears at the sight of beauty, and his mouth quivered as he said:

‘Mighty Lady Athene, my goddess!’

And with that he knelt down on the rock in front of where she stood, and prayed to the wisdom of God.

He refused to go to the grand lunch after this, and insisted on our remaining up here till it was time to get to the theatre, quoting something that Socrates had said about the cleansing power of beauty; ‘so we will not soil ourselves just yet,’ quoth he, ‘with the intrigues we should hear about at lunch, but go straight from here to the theatre.’ So we bought from a peasant some cheese wrapped up in a vine-leaf, and a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread and some grapes, and then went down the rock to the theatre. And still that divine vision had possession of Alcibiades, for he paid no attention to the greeting of his friends, and bade them be silent. And soon{328} the actors were come, and the watchman went up to the tower, and looked east, and saw the beacons leap across the land, to show that the ten-year siege was over, and that Troy had fallen. Then slowly began to be unfolded the tale of the stupendous tragedy. Home came Agamemnon, with his captive, the Princess Cassandra, riding behind him in his chariot of triumph. Clytemnestra, his wife, met him at the palace door, and with feigned obeisance and lying words of love welcomed him in, leaving Cassandra outside. Then there descended on the Princess the spirit of prophecy, and in wild words she shrieked out the doom that was coming. Quickly it came: from within we heard the death-cry of the King, and the palace doors swung open, and out came the Queen, fondling the axe with which she had slain him.... The doom of the gods was accomplished.

Then afterwards we went round to the green-room, and found ?schylus there, and Alcibiades, in his impulsive way—I tell him he has the feelings of a woman—must kneel and kiss the hand that wrote this wonderful play. Socrates{329} was there, too, putting absurd questions to everybody about the difference between the muse of tragedy and the muse of comedy; as if anybody cared, so long as ?schylus wrote plays like that! However, he got Plato to listen to him, and soon made him contradict himself, which is what Socrates chiefly cares about. Pericles came in, too, with Aspasia, to whom he kindly introduced me. Certainly she is extraordinarily beautiful, and has great wit. But she called attention to her physical charms too much, which is silly, since they are quite capable of calling attention to themselves.

Afterwards, since only Alcibiades and I had seen the wonderful statue, we all strolled up to the Acropolis again to look at it and the sunset. Socrates came, too, and after we had examined and admired the bronze goddess again, we went and sat on the steps of the temple of Athene. He tried his usual game of asking us questions till we contradicted ourselves, but before long all of us refused to answer him any more, saying that we were aware that we were totally ignorant of everything, and that there was{330} no longer any need for him to prove it to us. And then—exactly how it arose I don’t know, but I think it was from the questions and answers that had already passed—he began to weave us the most wonderful fable, showing us how all that we thought beautiful here on earth was but the reflection, the pale copy, of the beauty which was eternal. Round the outer rim of the earth and the stars, he said, ran the living stream of a great river, which, indeed, was heaven, and everything that we thought beautiful here had its archetype there, and all day and all night the gods drove round and round on this river of beauty in their chariots. It was our business, then, here on earth, to look for beauty everywhere, and never falter in the quest of it, for so we prepared ourselves for the sight of that of which these things were but the shadow, so that the greater would be the initiation which would be ours after death. More especially we must seek for the beauty of spiritual things, which was the real beauty, and so order our bodies, our words, and actions, that they were all in tune with it, with the beauty of prudence, and temperance,{331} and kindness, and wisdom, for it was of these that heaven itself and the living stream was composed, and these shone from the eyes of the immortal gods.

‘So there is my prayer,’ said he, rising and stretching out his hands to the great statue, while we all rose with him. ‘O Athene, give me inward beauty of soul, and let the inward and the outward man be at one.’

So the sun set, but on the violet crown of Athens—the hills there, Hymettus, Pentelicus, and Parnes—the light still lingered, and shone like the river of beauty Socrates had told us about, till it faded also from the tops, and above the deep night was starry-kirtled.

 

Helen is the most delightful person in the world to tell stories to. However lamely you tell them, she is absorbed in them, and never asks about the weak points, as other children do. She might, for instance, have asked if I was correct about my dates; did the ‘Agamemnon’ come out in the year that the ‘Promachos’ was made? Instead——

‘And who was I?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell{332} me I was Aspasia, because I don’t like what you told me about her.’

‘No; you were not Aspasia,’ I said rather hurriedly; ‘and I rather think you had had your turn in Greece at some other time. I didn’t know you then, except, perhaps, in the myths, for I am not sure that you were not Electra.’

‘Was she nice?’ asked Helen.

‘She was very nice to Orestes.’

‘Oh, don’t! Who was Orestes? What a nice name!’

‘You were his sister. That’s all about mythology just now.’

 

The plain quivered under the sunlit haze of blue. To the south the dim sea was in tone like two skies poured together, and the isles of Greece floated in it like swimmers asleep. Below, to the left, lay the theatre where I had seen the ‘Agamemnon,’ empty, but ready as if the play was just going to begin. Who knew what ghosts of those supreme actors were there, what audience of the bright-eyed Greeks followed the drama? And above us stood the{333} presiding genius of Athens, the beautiful house built for the virgin who sprang from the brain of God. A little more, and it would be her birthday again, and we should hear the sound of horse-hoofs coming up the hill, and see the procession of the Athenian youths, and the men with the bulls for sacrifice, and the wine-carriers, and the incense-bearer, and the priests of the great goddess. Another company would be there, too—the hierarchy of Olympus—come down on Athene’s birthday to visit her in her beautiful home. With Zeus would be the mother of the gods; and Aphrodite would be there, the spirit of love that renews the earth; and Apollo, who makes it bright with sunshine; and Demeter, the mother of the cornfields; and Persephone, radiant, and returned from the gate of death; and Hermes, the swift messenger whose feet were winged; and Iris, who was rainbow, the sign of the beneficent seasons.

And ... though we saw them not, there was not one missing. Love was here, and below were the ripening cornfields, on which the sun shone; and beyond was the realm of{334} Poseidon, and a squall of spring rain, that passed like a curtain in front of Hymettus, showed us Iris.

Then it was time to go down townwards again, for the morning was passed; but Helen paused at the doorway at the gate of the Acropolis, and looked towards the temple.

‘Best of all, I like Socrates’ prayer,’ she said; ‘and I must say it to myself.’

 

Spring had been rather late this year, and a week ago, when we drove out to the foot of Pentelicus, to have a country ramble, the rubbish of last year’s autumn was still in evidence. Then the spring began to stir, and two days ago, when we had gone out again, all the anemones except one kind were in full flower. They are heralds, those mauve and violet and pink and white chalices of blossom, to tell us that the great procession of Primavera has begun. But last of all come the trumpeters, the scarlet anemones, and if the sun has been warm, and no north wind has delayed the procession, they blow their blasts over the land just two days after the heralds have appeared.{335} So to-day after lunch we went out to hear the trumpeters; to-morrow we shall see Primavera herself.

Spring herself, the goddess Primavera, was very near to-day, for on thicket and brake and over the flank of the hill-side her trumpeters were blowing their shrill blasts of scarle............