I was sitting at home with the play in my hands, wondering how to get the most from the death scene, when I felt a pair of eyes staring at my back. Unwillingly I turned, knowing too well what I would see. The sun was westering. The mask stared out into full light, stern, radiant, without pity.
I went over, and looked reproachful. But he only laughed at me, in the dark behind his eyes. So I chose Atalanta, doubling it with Queen Althaia, and asked for Anaxis as Meleager. I was glad to offer him something, for he was then very dejected; he had lately risked half his savings in a trading ship to the Euxine which had gone down. Land prices kept rising, the more he saved; this had been his last chance of buying back his father’s land. Now he was almost back where he started. (Things have changed since then. He owns the family estate, and has bought the next-door farm, since he took up politics.)
I enjoyed rehearsals. Once I was played in, I stopped wondering what Theodoros might be doing, and thought only of what I would do. It was a part with plenty of light and shade—complex, spirited, harshly tragic, with a noble close.
At the presentation, Theodoros and his company appeared with golden wreaths, showing they had a rich choregos, and the title of their play was given out: Ariadne Forsaken.
Well, I thought, there’s the thing settled. He can’t miss with that if he tries. The crown will have to have the judges’ tears dried off it before he puts it on.
I felt dashed for an hour or two, but it was only what I had expected, and losing to Theodoros, at least one lost to someone good. It was not like being beaten by modish tricks.
It was so-so weather on the day of the performance. We drew second turn to play, and Theodoros was on last. It was blowing, threatening rain, and clearing up by turns all day; I don’t think it favored any one play above the others.
Since I knew where the crown was going, I put it out of my mind, and just played for my own enjoyment, and for that of people, like Axiothea, whose judgment I respected. At the end, we were quite pleased with our reception. That’s done, I thought, as I stripped and got dressed; now I’ll watch Theodoros, and not give way to jealousy. It keeps one from learning, and one can’t see such an artist every day.
As always, he was a pleasure when he only walked across the stage. Moreover, the play had clearly been written for him. If another sponsor had drawn him first, whoever did the part would have had to play Theodoros. But the poet had the real one, and had given him nothing to do but play himself. Every effect he had ever melted the theater with was written in for poor Ariadne. You would have thought he was a juggler in need of five balls and a stool to do his act, not an artist who wanted stimulus. He did his best to give it freshness, but it was like seasoning stale fish. All the same, he was such a delight to hear that I felt sure he must have won, until the herald gave out that I had.
So I had to get my costume on again, and be crowned, and make my bow; then back to the dressing room, with the crowd about me. I was just combing my hair, when a voice behind cried, “My dear! Superb! It killed me to miss the end, I was almost too late to dress.”
It was Theodoros. We had met once or twice at parties, but he was always surrounded, and I hardly knew him. He took me by the shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks. No one in the business had a bad word for Theodoros, and now I could see why.
“I sat there, my dear,” he said, “quite hating you for having that lovely role and knowing what to do with it. But I had to give in like all the rest.”
I knew enough to be honored by this foolery. His dignity could be freezing; he stood no nonsense from the richest of sponsors, nor, I believe, from kings. He kept this kind of thing for equals.
“May I come to your party? A married woman, dear, even though forsaken. A girl from the country needs a chaperone, among all these horrid men.”
So began our friendship, which lasted till his death. There was only one shadow on the day, one of those unlucky chances. Dion, while in Athens, attended all the sacred festivals, including those of Dionysos; he would have thought it uncouth to slight the customs of his hosts. But I had never thought for a moment he might come backstage. This, however, he did. The play had not offended his morals or his piety, and he had been struck, it seems, by my performance as old Althaia, when she repents her vengeance after having destroyed her son. What with this and that, he decided to greet me; but by the time he made up his mind to it, the other gentlemen had gone; it was mostly actors and hetairas and old friends; and Theodoros, who had hated his own role, was burlesquing it, kneeling on a table for the Naxian shore, with words of his own invention. When Dion was seen in the doorway, the skeneroom hushed like a class when the headmaster enters. Theodoros changed in a flash from a screaming whore to an ambassador, but still too late. Shocked as he must have been, Dion’s courtesy never faltered, and he said his piece. For an instant our eyes met, his saying, “How can you endure this life?” and mine, “You might try to understand.” But I don’t expect it was worse than his supposings, which had not prevented his former kindness. He soon forgave me, and greeted me as before.
From the Lenaia to the Dionysia never seems very long. I had a good role, but this time so did Theodoros; he won, and well deserved to win; and without him I might still have lost to Philemon. But I had been well received; I was now a leading man sponsors wanted, and felt well enough content. Soon after, a letter came to my house from Dion, speaking gracefully of my performance, then saying, “You will share, I know, our rejoicing at the news of Plato’s return. He is already in Tarentum, and will sail for Athens with the first fair wind.”
14
IT WAS NOT THE RETURN OF SPRING SAILING weather which had persuaded Dionysios to part with Plato. The cause was war.
Dion, from his knowledge of the Carthaginians, had tried to keep them ignorant of his fall from power; but the upshot was that they had learned he was an exile who could neither help nor harm them. Their envoys treated with Dionysios and Philistos; they distrusted the second, and despised the first. All winter they prepared for war. They attacked in spring.
Speusippos told me later the tale of those winter months. While Plato was sick, all Syracuse remarked that the Archon seemed more concerned than when his own father lay dying. But the danger past, Plato was barely on his feet again when once more he was worn out with scenes, always with this same demand to be first among his friends. Speusippos, who had had all he could stand and more, said it was like a young boy at school enamored of another, but owned that the wretched fellow seemed really to be suffering.
A base man would have flattered him; a man of more common virtues put him quickly out of hope. But for Plato, who was used to young men loving him, this was the first step towards philosophy; he would have thought shame to reject it, just for his own peace of mind. Patiently and selflessly, he used that charm which Dion had remembered for twenty years, to make his jailer captive. Speusippos said it was like a dialogue between bird and fish, each calling from an element the other could not live in. To the one, the crown of love was excellence; to the other it was possession.
“His father has a good deal to answer for,” I said. “As long as he lived, the poor wretch was never allowed an hour of self-esteem. Now he comes like a starving man to an elegant symposion, grabbing without manners. Put it down to poverty.”
“I don’t suppose,” said Speusippos impatiently, “he had half the troubles in his youth that Plato did. The war, the siege, the death of friends in battle and by the hands of friends, his kinsmen killed as tyrants, and execrated to this day—and then Sokrates, whom he loved and honored above all men, murdered in form of law … But never mind; the man who squeals gets all the pity. At all events, he kept telling Dionysios that the way to his regard led through philosophy; and Dionysios kept replying that Dion must be first disowned, else how should he know he was being advised to his own advantage? Philistos’ faction had warned him he was just being softened to make way for Dion’s usurpation. He wanted evidence of good faith.”