Woman in the golden ages

by Amelia Gere Mason

We have an account of one model husband who is not content that his young wife should simply know how to spin, weave, and direct her maids, so he tries to educate her. She is only fifteen, and he says that she has lived under the strictest restraint so that she might “see as little, hear as little, and ask as few questions as possible.” When he has her properly domesticated so that she dares to speak in his presence, he explains their mutual responsibilities in terms that must have mystified this child of nature a little, tells her to do well what the gods have suited to her and men approve, to use no cosmetics or aids to beauty, and to knead bread or fold linen for exercise, since she must not walk out. The main thing he dwells upon is the necessity of looking closely after their common fortunes; but she has also to take care of the children, and nurse the slaves when they are ill. He kindly admits that if she is superior to him she will be mistress,—taking good care, however, that such an unfortunate state of affairs shall not exist so far as education is concerned,—and assures her that the better she serves the interests of his family and household, the more she will be honored. This is all very well so far as it goes, and we may readily admit that it is of more vital importance to administer the affairs of one’s family with judgment and dignity than to talk about art or read Homer. But the docile wife had a housekeeper as well as plenty of slaves, and, naturally, abundant leisure. It certainly implied a degree of what Socrates called “manly understanding” on her part, to follow her husband’s abstruse reasoning on the duties of women, and his minute instructions for carrying them out; yet this wise representative of the most civilized race the world has known never so much as hints that she has an intellect.

Socrates listens with great interest to this advanced theory of wife-training as it is unfolded to him, and sagely remarks that the husband is responsible for her errors if he does not properly teach her. It seems that he did not try the system on Xanthippe, or if he did it was a dismal failure, as the much-abused woman is never quoted as a model or a saint, and we do not hear that he taxed himself with her shortcomings. He said that he married her for the excitement of conquest—the same motive that leads a man to try his power over a high-spirited horse; also as a discipline, because he was sure that he could endure every one else if he could endure her. It would be curious to know what she thought about it, but one cannot help suspecting that she had the lion’s share of the discipline, and that Socrates was a greater success as a philosopher and talker than as a husband.

There was one exception, however, to this rigid seclusion, a small recognition of the fact that women probably have souls. They were allowed a part in religious festivals, and these were events in their lives. They meant a breath of fresh air and a glimpse of the outer world. Perhaps they meant also a little spiritual consolation, which must often have been greatly needed; but of this we are not sure. The Hellenic divinities were not eminently consoling, and the wise Athena was particularly unsympathetic, though the Athenian virgins had at least the pleasure of making her richly ornamented robes, and putting them on her once a year. The woman in the comedy says that at seven she could carry the peplum in the procession, at ten she ground cakes for the patron goddess, and when she grew to be a beautiful maiden, she had charge of the sacred basket.

One can imagine the flutter of pleasure with which the young girls of the golden age of Athens donned their white draperies and gold-embroidered mantles to march in the Panathenaic procession to the Acropolis. Their snowy veils floated airily in the breeze, as they went up the marble steps of the propylæa chanting choral hymns and carrying in their hands the branches of silvery olive to lay at the feet of the stately goddess. How bright the sky! how blue the sparkling sea! How beautiful the white temples and colonnades, alive with sculptured heroes! Before them rose Hymettus in its robe of violet haze, and the cone of Lycabettus, sharply outlined in the clear air. Sheltered behind the low hills on the other side of the vast olive-groves, the magnificent temple of Eleusis, with its heart of mystery, towered in its peerless majesty, and the restless waves of Salamis lapped the shore at its side. This world of beauty was young then and fresh, with no age-old tragedies to sadden the brilliant crowd that wound in dazzling array through the forest of columns and statues. The flower of Athens was there—brave, handsome, and clever men, poets, artists, and philosophers, warriors on prancing horses, beautiful women and laughing children. If the uncaged maidens were tempted to flirt a little with their soft, dark eyes, who can blame them? They were young and human, companionship was sweet, and they too had tender hearts, though small account was made of them.

But the day ends. The sacred Athena is resplendent in her new robe. The gay crowd moves back past the exquisite little Ionic temple of Victory and down the massive steps into the agora, where life goes on as before. Men throng the porticos and talk of the new play of Sophocles, or the last statue of Phidias, or the prospects of war, or any of the thousand and one things that come uppermost in the affairs of a great city. When the shadows fall and the stars come out bright and shining in that crystal air, they gather at banquets or symposia, where flute-players and dancing-girls are brought in to amuse them, or some Lais or Phryne of the hour enthralls them by her beauty and dazzles them with her wit. But the wives and daughters of these men, who do not see fit to educate them for companions, go back to their lonely homes and to an isolation from all social and intellectual interests as deep as if they were asleep in the sculptured tombs of the Via Sacra.

The women of Athens fulfilled their duties with becoming modesty, so far as we know. They were respectably ignorant, and did not encroach upon the time-honored privileges of men. It is true that Elpinice, the sister of Cimon, was a trifle strong-minded, and, taking the Spartan women as models, went about alone; but we do not hear that she had any following. Unpleasant things were said about her, which we are safe in doubting, as unpleasant things have always been said of women who presumed to have opinions of their own, or to walk outside of the straight line of tradition. At all events, a rich Athenian fell in love with her, and was glad to take her without a dowry and pay the fine of her distinguished father. But it is certain that no appreciable number of Attic ladies were disposed to incur the odium of public opinion so distinctly expressed in these words:

Good women must abide within the house;
Those whom we meet abroad are nothing worth.

Why in the face of such reverent submission were they so contemptuously spoken of? We are often told to-day that women cannot expect any privileges when they want rights. It may be pertinent to ask, in the name of consistency, why they had no privileges when they sat humbly at the feet of their husbands and demanded no rights?

But it was among these women that the great dramatists lived and created the masterpieces of the world. It may be that they saw and felt the cheerless side of so fettered a life, and that is why they painted their heroines in such somber colors, too often innocent victims of men’s misdeeds, and doomed to suffering with the sad inevitability of fate. But the noble character and fine intelligence given to so many of them must have had some counterpart in reality. Did the city that produced Antigone, Iphigenia, and Alcestis, have no great women, or did their creators look elsewhere for the moral dignity that made them possible? And where were the models found? Not, surely, among the hetæræ whose power, whatever it may have been, was not a moral one. Not even among the goddesses, who were notoriously vain, selfish, crafty, and cruel. We know that a thousand untold tales of virtue and heroism are hidden behind closed doors, and we may well believe they were not without precedent among these apparently colorless and pent-up lives.

Then it is easy perhaps to err in assuming that there were no women who rose above hard conditions into a degree of companionship with their husbands. It is true they had no education and were excluded from the society of men who had it, but it is impossible to suppose that the women of so brilliant a race were utterly without the clear perception and flexible intelligence which made its men so famous. Nor can we infer invariable misery. There have been good men in all ages who loved their families, and women whose light could not be extinguished. The great Cimon is said to have had an ardent affection for his wife, and he was inconsolable after her death, though he did not curb his wandering fancies while she lived. Socrates mentions Niceratus as “one who was in love with his wife and loved by her.” There is a familiar anecdote of Themistocles that puts him in a pleasant light. He said in a laughing way that his little son was greater than any man in Greece, “for the Athenians command the Greeks, I command the Athenians, his mother commands me, and he commands his mother.” If reports be true, however, the influence of his wife was largely theoretical, as it did not suffice to keep him from doing some very disreputable things. But he wished a worthy man for his daughter, rather than a rich one, saying he “would prefer a man without money to money without a man.” Aristotle is not quoted among the champions of women, but he tenderly loved his own wife, whom he married in spite of the reverses which had ruined her family. Her life was brief, but he left orders that when he died her remains should be transferred to the tomb which held his own, according to her last request. This was done long years after her death, though he had another wife whose virtues he commends, asking his friends to give her kind attention and provide her with a suitable husband if she wishes to marry again. These instances among well-known men are worthy of note, and others might be cited. But the exceptions prove the rule, and the very fact that it was a matter of comment when a man was in love with his wife shows that it was rare.