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PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN
“Be frank with me, Lysander; thou knowest that my own
countrymen often jealously accuse me of loving Sparta too
well. I imitate, say they, the manners and dress of the Spartan,
as Pausanias those of the Mede. Trust me then, and bear with
me, when I say that Pausanias ruins the cause of Sparta. If he
tarry here longer in the command he will render all the allies
enemies to thy country. Already he has impaired his fame and
dimmed his laurels; already, despite his pretexts and excuses,
we perceive that his whole nature is corrupted. Recall him to
Sparta, while it is yet time — time to reconcile the Greeks with
Sparta, time to save the hero of Plataea from the contaminations of the East. Preserve his own glory, dearer to thee as his
special friend than to all men, yet dear to me, though an Athenian, from the memory of the deeds which delivered Hellas.”
Cimon spoke with the blunt and candid eloquence natural to him, and to which his manly countenance and earnest
tone and character for truth gave singular effect.
Lysander remained long silent. At length he said, “I neither deny nor assent to thine arguments, son of Miltiades.
The Ephors alone can judge of their wisdom.”
“But if we address them, by message, to the Ephors, thou
and the nobler Spartans will not resent our remonstrances?”
“All that injures Pausanias Lysander will resent. Little
know I of the fables of poets, but Homer is at least as familiar to the Dorian as to the Ionian, and I think with him that
between friends there is but one love and one anger.”
“Then are the frailties of Pausanias dearer to thee than
his fame, or Pausanias himself dearer to thee than Sparta —
the erring brother than the venerable mother.”
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EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
Lysander’s voice died on his lips; the reproof struck home to
him. He turned away his face, and with a slow wave of his hand
seemed to implore forbearance. Cimon was touched by the action and the generous embarrassment of the Spartan; he saw,
too, that he had left in the mind he had addressed thoughts
that might work as he had designed, and he judged by the effect produced on Lysander what influence the same arguments
might effect addressed to others less under the control of personal friendship. Therefore, with a few gentle words, he turned
aside, continued his way, and left Lysander alone.
Entering the town, the Athenian threaded his path
through some of the narrow lanes and alleys that wound from
the quays towards the citadel, avoiding the broader and more
frequented streets. The course he took was such as rendered
it little probable that he should encounter any of the higher
classes, and especially the Spartans, who from their constitutional pride shunned the resorts of the populace. But as he
came nearer the citadel stray Helots were seen at times, emerging from the inns and drinking houses, and these stopped
short and inclined low if they caught sight of him at a distance,
for his hat and staff, his majestic stature, and composed step,
made them take him for a Spartan.
One of these slaves, however, emerging suddenly from
a house close by which Cimon passed, recognized him, and
retreating within abruptly, entered a room in which a man
sat alone, and seemingly in profound thought; his cheek rested on one hand, with the other he leaned upon a small lyre,
his eyes were bent on the ground, and he started, as a man does
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PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN
dream-like from a reverie, when the Helot touched him and
said abruptly, and in a tone of surprise and inquiry, —
“Cimon, the Athenian, is ascending the hill towards
the Spartan quarter.”
“The Spartan quarter! Cimon!” exclaimed Alcman, for it
was he. “Give me thy cap and hide.”
Hastily enduing himself in these rough garments, and drawing the cap over his face, the Mothon hurried to the threshold,
and, seeing the Athenian at the distance, followed his footsteps,
though with the skill of a man used to ambush he kept himself
unseen — now under the projecting roofs of the houses, now
skirting the wall, which, heavy with buttresses, led towards
the outworks of the citadel. And with such success did he pursue his track that when Cimon paused at last at the place of
his destination, and gave one vigilant and searching glance
around him, he detected no living form.
He had then reached a small space of table-land on which
stood a few trees of great age — all that time and the encroachments of the citadel and the town had spared of the sacred
grove which formerly surrounded a rude and primitive temple,
the grey columns of which gleamed through the heavy foliage.
Passing, with a slow and cautious step, under the thick shadow of these trees, Cimon now arrived before the open door of
the temple, placed at the east so as to admit the first beams of
the rising sun. Through the threshold, in the middle of
the fane, the eye rested on the statue of Apollo, raised upon
a lofty pedestal and surrounded by a rail — a statue not such as
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EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
the later genius of the Athenian represented the god of light,
and youth, and beauty; not wrought from Parian marble, or
smoothest ivory, and in the divinest proportions of the human
form, but rude, formal, and roughly hewn from the wood of
the yew-tree — some early effigy of the god, made by the simple piety of the first Dorian colonisers of Byzantium. Three
forms stood mute by an altar, equally homely and ancient, and
adorned with horns, placed a little apart, and considerably below the statue.
As the shadow of the Athenian, who halted at the threshold, fell long and dark along the floor, the figures turned slowly, and advanced towards him. With an inclination of his head
Cimon retreated from the temple; and, looking round, saw
abutting from the rear of the building a small cell or chamber,
which doubtless in former times had served some priestly purpose, but now, doorless, empty, desolate, showed the utter neglect into which the ancient shrine of the Dorian god had fallen amidst the gay and dissolute Byzantians. To this cell Cimon
directed his steps; the men he had seen in the temple followed
him, and all four, with brief and formal greeting, seated themselves, Cimon on a fragment of some broken column, the others on a bench that stretched along the wall.
“Peers of Sparta,” said the Athenian, “ye have doubtless ere
this revolved sufficiently the grave matter which I opened to
you in a former conference, and in which, to hear your decision, I seek at your appointment these sacred precincts.”
“Son of Miltiades,” answered the blunt Polydorus, “you inform us that it is the intention of the Athenians to despatch
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PAUSANIAS, THE SPARTAN
a messenger to Sparta demanding the instant recall of Pausanias. You ask us to second that request. But without our aid
the Athenians are masters to do as they will. Why should we
abet your quarrel against the Regent?”
“Friend,” replied Cimon, “we, the Athenians, confess to no
quarrel with Pausanias; what we demand is to avoid all quarrel with him or yourselves. You seem to have overlooked my
main arguments. Permit me to reurge them briefly. If Pausanias remains, the allies have resolved openly to revolt; if you,
the Spartans, assist your chief, as methinks you needs must do,
you are at once at war with the rest of the Greeks. If you desert him you leave Hellas without a chief, and we will choose
one of our own. Meanwhile, in the midst of our dissensions,
the towns and states well affected to Persia will return to her
sway; and Persia herself falls upon us as no longer an united
enemy but an easy prey. For the sake, therefore, of Sparta and of
Greece, we entreat you to co-operate with us; or rather, to let
the recall of Pausanias be effected more by the wise precaution of the Spartans than by the fierce resolve of the other
Greeks. So you save best the dignity of your State, and so, in
reality, you best serve your chief. For less shameful to him is
it to be recalled by you than to be deposed by us.”
“I know not,” said Gelon, surlily, “what Sparta hath to do at
all with this foreign expedition; we are safe in our own defiles.”
“Pardon me, if I remind you that you were scarcely safe at
Thermopylae, and that had the advice Demaratus proffered to
Xerxes been taken, and that island of Cithera, which com-
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EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
mands Sparta itself, been occupied by Persian troops, as in a future time, if Sparta desert Greece, it may be, you were undone.
And, wisely or not, Sparta is now in command at Byzantium,
and it behoves her to maintain, with the dignity she assumes,
the interests she represents. Grant that Pausanias be recalled,
another Spartan can succeed him. Whom of your countrymen
would you prefer to that high post, if you, O Peers, aid us in
the dismissal of Pausanias?
27
27
This chapter was left unfinished by the author; probably with
the intention of recasting it. Such an intention, at least, is indicated
by the marginal marks upon the MS.
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
The fountain sparkled to the noonday, the sward around
it was sheltered from the sun by vines formed into shadowy
arcades, with interlaced leaves for roof. Afar through the vistas
thus formed gleamed the blue of a sleeping sea.
Under the hills, or close by the margin of the fountain,
Cleonice was seated upon a grassy knoll, covered with wild
flowers. Behind her, at a little distance, grouped her handmaids, engaged in their womanly work, and occasionally conversing in whispers. At her feet reposed the grand form of Pausanias. Alcman stood not far behind him, his hand, resting on
his lyre, his gaze fixed upon the upward jet of the fountain.
“Behold,” said Cleonice, “how the water soars up to the level of its source!”
“As my soul would soar to thy love,” said the Spartan, amorously.
“As thy soul should soar to the stars. O son of Hercules,
when I hear thee burst into thy wild nights of ambition, I see
not thy way to the stars.”
“Why dost thou ever thus chide the ambition which may
give me thee?”
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EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
“No, for thou mightest then be as much below me as thou
art now above. Too humble to mate with the Heracleid, I am
too proud to stoop to the Tributary of the Mede.”
“Tributary for a sprinkling of water and a handful of earth.
Well, my pride may revolt, too, from that tribute. But, alas!
what is the tribute Sparta exacts from me now? — personal
liberty — freedom of soul itself. The Mede’s Tributary may be
a king over millions; the Spartan Regent is a slave to the few.”
“Cease — cease — cease. I will not hear thee,” cried Cleonice, placing her hands on her ears.
Pausanias gently drew them away; and holding them both
captive in the large clasp of his own right hand, gazed eagerly
into her pure, unshrinking eyes.
“Tell me,” he said, “for in much thou art wiser than I am,
unjust though thou art. Tell me this. Look onward to the future with a gaze as steadfast as now meets mine, and say if thou
canst discover any path, except that which it pleases thee to
condemn, which may lead thee and me to the marriage altar!”
Down sank those candid eyes, and the virgin’s cheek grew
first rosy red, and then pale, as if every drop of blood had receded to the heart.
“Speak!” insisted Pausanias, softening his haughty voice to
its meekest tone.
“I cannot see the path to the altar,” murmured Cleonice,
and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
“And if thou seest it not,” returned Pausanias, “art thou
brave enough to say — Be we lost to each other for life? I,
though man and Spartan, am not brave enough to say that!”
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