Glaucon, the statesman and soldier, walked homeward from the Prytaneum where the city had received certain strangers of note, envoys to Athens. With him moved Theodorus the sculptor, and behind the two several attendant slaves. The air was fine, with a breeze from the sea. Theodorus made his companion remark the light that fell upon Mount Lycabettus. Glaucon looked and said that the effect was good, but said it in a tone of abstraction. His mind was yet in the Prytaneum, engaged with his speech that the occasion had prompted. Glaucon’s phrases yet echoed in Glaucon’s ears. They had been good phrases and Glaucon thought them good. He would have judged “sententious” and “strong” to be applicable words. Those, and “at times eloquence, like the light upon Mount Lycabettus.” Yet was the statesman Glaucon by no means impudent of his merit nor a common braggart. He had spoken well and for the right as he saw it, and he saw more than many. And behind what Glaucon said stood, for men to see, many known courageous acts of Glaucon.

The two lived near the Diomean Gate. Now, making way through the crowded streets, the hour being one when men were abroad, they reached a pal?stra and saw about to enter several of their acquaintance—Lycias the poet, Ion, Lysander, Hippodamus, and others. These called to the two to enter also and observe Thracian wrestlers. All{179} went in together and, mingled with a crowd, watched the mighty-thewed. When the match was over the group, leaving the pal?stra, but still talking of the body and its powers, went along until there was reached the small temple of Hestia. Here the steps rose invitingly free of the crowd, and the space between the pillars smiled and invited. The light yet shone upon the mountains and upon the temples of the Acropolis. Lycias and Theodorus would pause and in the porch of Hestia continue the conversation while observing the beauty of the evening. Glaucon remarked that he had business at home. “Let it take its rest!” said Lycias. “You are a poet, also, Glaucon, and a painter and a maker of statues—just as I converse familiarly with envoys and undoubtedly fought at Megara, though I cannot just now recall having done so! Every man sacrifices in every temple. Stay and put up your hands to beauty, and let business go throw herself down from the wall!”

“He was only a moment ago a poet,” said Theodorus. “You should have heard him at the Prytaneum upon Justice!”

They turned into the porch of Hestia. Despite the light upon the temples, and despite the interposed action of the wrestling match, Glaucon, in an inner voice, was yet saying over this or that part of the Prytaneum speech. The difference lay in the fact that he was now saying them over to Myrina.

“An encomium?” asked Ion.

“You would have thought it a voice from the Golden Age!”

Glaucon’s ears and at last Glaucon’s mind caught the statement of Theodorus and were pleased thereby. He{180} turned from the praise-honey that Myrina would serve to the immediate feast.

“I love to hear,” said Hippodamus, “lovers speak of love, poets of poetry, physicians of healing, soldiers of soldiering, and legislators of the relations between states and among men.”

“Oh!” cried Lycias. “Glaucon is a lover, too.”

“Who is the youth?” asked Ion.

Laughter arose. “Ion is newly come to town—he does not know! Address your question, Ion, to Glaucon.”

“I will save him the trouble, Lycias,” said Glaucon. “Know, Ion, that I am like the barbarians and hold in hatred affection in that kind.”

“But say to Glaucon the word Myrina—”

“Who is Myrina?”

“Myrina is a woman.—Lysander the silent, have you seen the new colonnade by the temple of ?sculapius?”

“Knock! Knock!” quoth Lycias. “Doorkeeper and dog say ‘Not at home!’—Now, in the speech at the Prytaneum—Oh, here he is at home! Oh, voice from the Golden Age, discourse to us anew of Justice!”

“I said of Justice,” answered Glaucon, “what a man of knowledge should say.”

“He will not tell!—Veil your face, O Glaucon, for I am not modest for my friend!—Diocles and Timotheus overcrowed the envoys with the glories of the Athenian state. They sat with a downward look, and saw on the earth their bound hopes. Then arose Glaucon, and Apollo inspired him.”

“Fighting for the envoys and their country?”

“By Apollo!” said Glaucon, “fighting for the right of things!{181}”

“First, good as any rhapsode, he gave five lines from Homer! Then he spoke of his own motion, or of Apollo’s motion. He would have Justice reign over the countries of men, and none take advantage of his neighbour!”

“Hmmm!”

“So sounded the Prytaneum.—I find that I cannot give all his arguments, but they were good ones. There was opposition—not from the envoys; they breathed softly and seemed to feel the warmth of the sun after winter—but Diocles and Timotheus and their following drove in in a mighty counter-current. Then might you have seen Odysseus fight the seas!”

“Justice—”

“Later he brought in friendship and alliance, and the love of a friend for the true and the beautiful in his friend, and the friend’s desire that always his friend should lift with him. So that, climbing the mountain, one should not cry down to another, ‘Lo, now the sea opens before me! lo, now I see all Hellas!’ while the other cries sorrowfully up to him, ‘Still am I in the woods and briars and among the caves!’ He made application to states.”

“By Ares!” interrupted Hippodamus, “that is not the way I look at it!”

“No, Hippodamus. But that makes appeal to Glaucon. He made application to states, and, inspired by Apollo, he laid down a principle. The true lover of man will have man free and noble wherever he be found. The true statesman wishes as much for every state.”

“Father Zeus!” cried Hippodamus, “would you have Sparta, who is already as brave, become as wise as we? This little, weak country does not matter, but Sparta—!”

“I am not speaking, Hippodamus, but Glaucon—Glau{182}con speaks. ‘The great friend, that is to say the great statesman, denies to none place and garlands! He says to none, “Lie forever on the mat at my door, be forever dog at my heels!”’ Says Glaucon, ‘Shall a state withdraw wisdom from another state, leaving it dark of knowledge so that that state no longer knows how best to help itself? Shall a state be jealous of wisdom in a fellow state? Shall a state turn aside from its fellow the rivers of wealth? Shall it say, “Mine are all the rivers! Not for you ease of your own!” Shall a state desire to soften the body of its fellow? Shall it say, “Not for you gymnastic nor the diet of the strong! So, if we come to battle, you will not see the glint of any god’s eye, standing in your ranks! No! But you shall shamefully flee, and I will have you in laughter, and my heart will swell with pride where I stand fast.” Shall a state work that, or wish to work that, toward its fellow? Shall a state say to its fellow, “Be fair for me, send me dancers and flute-players, send me grapes from your vineyards and wine from your wine presses, be for me rich views and pleasant ports, grow wheat for me, send me marble out of which I may carve the forms of the gods, but move not of yourself nor for yourself! Be much if you will, but be not free!”—O Apollo! O Apollo! Thy arrow that is drawn against that thus-speaking state was made by Justice in her deep cave at the head of the world! Turn—turn—turn, thus-speaking state! Make libations, pray for nobility!’”

Theodorus the sculptor looked again at the light upon Mount Lycabettus. “Something like that was what Glaucon said.”

Lycias spoke. “By Pallas, a good speech!—But now propound—Does Athens take into alliance the country that sent the envoys?{183}”

Said suddenly Lysander the silent: “I came by the cross streets from the Agora and overtook an acquaintance who had been at the Prytaneum in the train of the Archon Timotheus. He said that he would stake his fortune that Athens would do no such thing!”

“Father Zeus! I should think not!” said Hippodamus.

“Oh, then,” said Lycias, “Glaucon spoke in a dream to dream-listeners!”

Glaucon looked at the light that was now but a thin crown upon the mountains. “I think that I was dreaming,” he said. “I have strange dreams sometimes!” He gathered his mantle about him.—“Theodorus, are you for home?”

The two left the porch and, the slaves attending, went away in the purple twilight toward the Diomean Gate. Lycias and the others followed them with their eyes.

“Who is Myrina?” again asked Ion the stranger.

“How short a while have you been in Athens!—Myrina! Ask the first street urchin you meet! He will say to you: ‘O Arcadian, for sense and wit the het?r? are among women as is Hellas among countries! As is Athens to other cities of the Hellenes so is Myrina (and one or two others) among the het?r?. For the rest,’ continues your urchin, ‘she is now the mistress of Glaucon the statesman.’”

“Is Glaucon wived?”

“‘O thou Arcadian!’ says the street urchin, shaking his finger, ‘what of that? Know, O woodland stranger, that wives are to bear us children that we may reasonably believe to be our own, and likewise to keep in order our houses. Het?r? are for delight. Shall not a Hellene have children, house-order, and delight?’ Then will he gather his rags together and depart, shaking his head.”

“Let us, too, depart,” said Lysander the silent. “The{184} light is fading, and there is a mist gathering over the earth.”

In the mean time Glaucon and Theodorus pursued their way along a street not now so crowded. “Why do you not sup with Myrina?” asked the sculptor.

“That is for to-morrow.—To-night there is drudgery at home. I have made a trading venture to Egypt and to-night the master of the ship is to meet me and give account.”

“Cannot Cleita—?”

“Cleita!—No, she keeps household accounts, but this is man’s work.”

They came, as they spoke, to the portico of Glaucon’s house. Those that lounged there sprang up to greet the master; the doorkeeper opened both leaves of the door. The two entered, were brought water for hands and feet, had the dust brushed from their garments. A dog came and sprang upon Glaucon, giving welcome. The master enquired for supper. It was ready, and the two proceeded to the banquet-room. Presently came the master of the ship trading to Egypt. Glaucon had a couch placed for him. Moschus the shipmaster muttered something about plain men and being at a loss among gentlemen ways, then, taking the couch, reclined with an air of listening for the steersman’s call. Supper was brought, and after food wine in a great cup. The talk was of the sea-master’s adventures, for he was dead on other sides. But he could well discourse of these, and of ships and cargoes and harbour merchants, and he knew the middle sea from Tyre to the Pillars of Hercules; and had glimpsed the River-Ocean beyond. In his talk was spice of perils withstood, and of action in the breadths and narrows of the sea. Also, rich{185} terms of commerce rose like fair islets or played like dolphins.

Glaucon and Theodorus found enjoyment in the talk of Moschus, widening knowledge. “O Hermes!” cried Glaucon, “I think that I also have built a boat and adventured, and borne metals and weapons and oil and wine afar in trade! How good it is for man to widen until he brings all within his ring!”

Moschus at last produced his tablets and the talk fell to one voyage’s profit and loss. Theodorus dozed over his wine. Then Moschus and Glaucon concluded their business, and Moschus, standing up, thanked Glaucon for good entertainment, and would go to his inn until dawn light upon the road to Phalerum. Shaking off sleep, Theodorus declared he would accompany him, for he had yet to hear about mermaiden. Sculptor and shipmaster went away together. Glaucon drank wine and talked with a trusted servant, then rising from the couch left the banquet-room and went to the women’s part of the house. Here he found Cleita in tears.

He sat down beside her. “What is the matter, Cleita?”

Cleita continuing to weep, Gorgo her maid undertook to answer. “O Glaucon, my master, we do not know! I have asked her. Lycia here has asked her, Daphne has asked her. For a long time she has been pining—We would have her see the physician, but she says she has no suffering in her body—”

Cleita drew toward her a scarf of Egyptian linen and with it wiped her eyes. “I am tired of this house and these maids!”

“Do you wish to go out to the farm for a time?”

“I am tired of that house and those maids!{186}”

“What, then, Cleita, do you wish to do?”

Cleita wept afresh. “O ye gods, I do not know!”

Glaucon drew a breath and prayed for patience. “Be a reasonable woman, Cleita! Discontent without knowing why—wanting things without knowing what—is not reason!”

Cleita raised her head. “All day you have been going up and down and to and fro! You have been entertained.”

“Entertainment is not all in life, my Cleita.”

“That, my master,” said Gorgo, “is just what we have been telling her!”

“I never said that it was;” said Cleita. She wrapped her head in the Egyptian scarf and again dropped it upon her arms.

Glaucon seriously considered her. “Have you not the children, Cleita? Have you not the management of the house?”

“That,” said Gorgo, “is unanswerable!”

Glaucon sat upon the edge of the couch. “The gods, Cleita, have parted one way of life to women and another to men. Will you deny the gods wisdom? All of us, at times, know discontent. The soldier thinks his life hard, the statesman often would lay down his cares, the mechanic grumbles, the servant repines. But the gods have willed degrees and duties. If women—if Athenian wives and mothers—went abroad from the house, if they were seen by all men everywhere, if we met them in the streets, the market-place, the theatre, the school, the pal?stra, where not, there would arise in the state great confusion! In a short while we should be no better than barbarians! But the gods have set comely bounds for women, as they have given to men freedom under the sky. Strive not against the{187} decrees of the gods! Cease this hungering and fretting for what is not good for you. There is impiety, O my Cleita, in your discontent!”

Gorgo drew a breath of rapture. “We do not need to go to Delphi!”

“Uncover your head, Cleita,” said Glaucon. “Sit up and cease this weeping!”

Cleita lay still. Then she raised herself upon her elbow, and drew the linen a little aside. “Myrina—”

“O Eros, give me patience!” thought Glaucon. He stood up. “Myrina—?”

“Myrina lives free. The het?r? have joy and light.”

“I am speaking,” said Glaucon, “not of het?r?, but of Athenian wives and mothers.” Cleita again sank her head. Glaucon, regarding her, strove at once to be master and wise. “You are a child, Cleita! If you smother there, you have yourself to thank!”

Nothing further coming from beneath the linen, he turned, after waiting until he was assured that it would come not, and left the gynec?um. Going, he said to himself, “She is a child! To-morrow I will buy her some basket or fan or piece of silk.”

Once more in the banquet-room he sat down and fingered the tablets covered with the accounting of Moschus the shipmaster. At last he pushed these aside, and with his elbows upon the table brought together his hands and rested his brow upon them. “Myrina—Myrina—Myrina! Deep and flowing and ever about me like River-Ocean—”

Myrina, from her own house, bought with earned gold, watched, too, that day, the light upon Mount Lycabettus. She saw it caress the temples upon the Acropolis, and of the{188} great statue of Athena make a torch, a star, blazing gold. Myrina, walking in her garden, had driven a thorn into her unsandalled foot. After three days it yet troubled her, and this day she would go to the temple of ?sculapius. She went in an adorned litter, borne by slaves, her nurse beside her, behind her more slaves. The litter’s curtains were partly drawn aside. Athens might see a beautiful woman within, and, coming closer, demanding of those who knew, learn that it was Myrina.... Respect—they gave it in seeming abundance. Here was a learned and fair and rich woman, with great............